


A Hogwarts Christmas Carol

by frownster



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Charles Dickens - Freeform, Christmas, Deathly Hallows, Gen, Godric's Hollow, Hogwarts, If you want it, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Spinner's End, War is over, mostly canon compliant, timeline issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frownster/pseuds/frownster
Summary: On the eve of the bleakest Christmas that Hogwarts has ever seen, Headmaster Severus Snape receives a visit from three mysterious spirits who show him visions of his past, present, and future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things you should know:  
> 1\. This fic is a Harry Potter story painted with colors of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I’m not the first to think of this idea. I did not read beyond the synopses for any other similar fics, so any similarities are purely coincidental.  
> 2\. I know: the timeline is all messed up. Ultimately, I decided to forgo the order of certain canon events if it served the story better, so more important things happen on/around Christmas. It’s best read with a vague-at-best comprehension of significant events in Deathly Hallows. If anyone’s interested, I can post a breakdown of canon conflicts (that I know of) at the end of each chapter. As you’ll see, the events in this story do not change what would have always happened in the canon storyline.  
> 3\. That said, I tried to keep everything else as close to book canon as I could in terms of characterization. I headcanon a lot and rectify my own ruined timeline in a bunch of places. Cursed Child is a play, not a book, and in my opinion it is also ridiculous, so you won’t see anything from that in Stave Four, sorry.  
> 4\. On that note, Ch. 4 will go some dark places. I’ve posted a trigger warning for implied sexual assault mention. It’s not heavy on the detail at all, but it’s there for your comfort. Please let me know if I need to tag anything else.  
> 5\. What I hope this fic has done is make a little bit more graceful the transition from Snape We Know And Hate to Snape Who Harry Named His Kid After. It is five chapters long, the same as the Dickens source material, and I’ll have all chapters posted by Christmas Eve this year. I hope you enjoy.

Albus was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. His heavy marble tomb lay still next to the vast, glassy lake; the school had seen his mangled body on the lawn after his violent ejection from the astronomy tower; and every witch and wizard in the world knew: Severus Snape had killed him.

Mind: in the months close of his death, his name was very much alive on the lips of magic-folk everywhere. You couldn’t walk down a block of Diagon Alley without hearing his name in a solemn whisper, or seeing the man’s mysterious smile, crooked nose, and twinkling eyes on glossy advertisements for Rita Skeeter’s wildly popular biopic of the most famous wizard since Merlin. Now, just seven months later, his was a name that spelled out revolt and rebellion, a name the meek dare not mutter, a name you didn’t say if you didn’t want the ministry to raid and posses your house or your loved ones to go missing in the night. It was the most taboo name next to that of the ministry’s Undesirable Number One, and second of course, to the Dark Lord himself.

Snape knew he was dead? Of course he did. He’d witnessed the last twinkle to leave Albus Dumbledore’s eyes, felt ever trapped in that deep and knowing look, and Snape had sworn he’d seen a flicker of childish fear cross the old wizard’s face, just for an instant as Snape prepared himself for the most important curse he’d ever cast. He had been Dumbledore’s sole executioner, his triple-agent, his thrall, and at the very best of cases he’d been something like a friend. And though they had planned it out for over a year in advance, and it had now been nearly seven months since his death, Snape was still haunted by the event, ever as much as the night he had killed him. It was something that none around him ever could have guessed - years of masking sorrow, guilt, fury, terror, and remorse had given him the upper hand in that respect. Since he had been appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school year thus far had consisted of him ferreting himself up in the headmaster’s office – _his_ office, now – never daring to appear in the Great Hall for meals or in the stands for Quidditch matches, which these days lacked the spirit and audience that had once made them a hallmark of the school year. He’d summon the elves to bring bland trays of food, if his stomach could handle it, but scarcely ate, growing thin and more sallow by each passing week in a way that not even his wardrobe’s swaths of black could hide. To the outside observers, however – to the Death Eaters now at his employ, to the students and staff of Hogwarts that remained after the bloodiest summer in Hogwarts history – Snape’s absence aided in keeping his air of cold intrigue and impassibility. Few students had even seen the new headmaster since his brief address at the Sorting Hat ceremony; he was rarely seen and only seldom heard since. Only the Carrows were allowed to invite themselves up to Snape’s lofty office, though they tended to outstay their little welcome in a matter of minutes. Snape could turn them away as he pleased; he was headmaster, and, more importantly, the Dark Lord’s right-hand agent. His seldom-spoken will was to be treated as law.

Snape knew the Carrows did not care for his presence. The pair had taken to bypassing permission and disciplining students by their own methods; methods that did not stand well with Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Hagrid – and sent them pounding on his office door, mustering up the courage to speak to him on behalf of the students’ well-being. He would be forced to ignore them, idly arguing the opposite point or sitting in his musty office in silence until they blustered away in angry tears. Once, when he ventured down to the base of his staircase to change the password on the gargoyle that guarded the staircase to his office, he was accosted by a jolly Horace Slughorn, who charmingly presented Snape with a box of chocolates and a bottle of Firewhiskey in exchange for an audience with him in the headmaster’s office. Snape coldly reminded him of the last time Slughorn had shared sweets and liquor intended for the headmaster with someone other than himself.

“I’m fresh out of bezoars, Horace,” he’d told him, and watched the plump man’s rosy cheeks deflate with terror and embarrassment, as though he was suddenly standing in the company of a dementor, and leaving a sputtering Slughorn weakly mumbling about “not meaning any harm,” and “just trying to chat.”

But what did Snape care! Solitude was the very thing he desired, was it not? The masquerade was taxing enough already, without having to oversee the only wizarding school in the country. That he met with the school’s old teachers at all was a directive of the Dark Lord himself: Hogwarts was a stronghold, and its occupants were insurance. Hostages. There was even talk of cancelling the trains home for the holidays to keep a better hold on their investments. But it was inevitable that students would rebel – particularly the Gryffindors – and it was inevitable that the rebels would have to be punished as example. Professor McGonagall and the others provided enough aid and protection in their own secretive ways, when they could. That much he knew for certain. In some cases, he could allow such actions to pass. The die had been cast on his part; the others would have to sort themselves out in this mess. He’d facilitate them as long as the Dark Lord demanded it, while waiting for Potter to surface for air somewhere. Perhaps today, perhaps a year from now. Perhaps never. Perhaps the boy was dead already - that was the smart thing to be these days. But Potter never was the forward-thinking type, and Snape had always been pessimistic on the boy being able to piece together Albus Dumbledore’s convoluted schemes, whether he had help or not.  

So, Snape waited. He fruitlessly played both parts; to what end, he could not foresee. _Keep the peace but rule with an iron fist_ was so much simpler on paper, and it was so much simpler to refuse help when he wasn’t being directly asked for it in the first place. And so, he stayed to his tower.

Not long after the first snow had spattered the grounds, a disturbance shook the castle so fiercely that Snape felt the tremors up in his office. Little puffs of dust came floating down from the rafters, and the headmaster’s portraits gave little cries of surprise around him. Snape set down his book and crossed to the window, where he could see steam rising from several shattered windows of the Great Hall. He squinted his eyes, but the sunlight on snow was blinding.

All but the most stubborn portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses had jerked awake. (Dumbledore’s, of course, was empty. They had rare occasion where it was safe for them to talk - not that Snape was in any mood to speak to him, anyway.)

“That was another of those portable swamps, I’m sure of it!” said Headmaster Gagwilde, clearly delighted.

“Nonsense,” said Headmaster Trimble, “those Weasley twins are gone by now, surely. Graduated almost two years ago, didn’t they?”

“They certainly left with a _bang_ ,” giggled Headmaster Mole. “But, no, too early to finish their last year.”

“Incidentally, they’ve since started a _joke shop_ ,” sniffed Headmaster Nigellus. “I could hear all sorts of their noises coming from my other portrait in Grimmauld Place; I’d recognize them anywhere. Gagwilde’s probably right. As if this castle hasn’t suffered enough defacement already.”

Headmaster Dippet gave a great _harumph_ of distaste. “I say! I would _never_ have tolerated that kind of mischief back in my day!”

“Oh yes, Armando,” drawled Headmaster Nigellus, “we all know what kind of mischief was allowed to pass in _your_ days as headmaster.”

“Enough,” said Snape, his icy voicing severing the Professors’ amusement into silence. How anyone had ever done any real work with their incessant chattering overhead was beyond his comprehension. He swept his cloak over his shoulder and left the office, gliding down the spiral staircase and making his way swiftly down the corridors to the Great Hall. Snape knew when he was close – the smell was a muggy bog on a summer’s day, overpowering in heat and stench. As Snape rounded a corner, warm and muddy water flooded over his ankles. The corridor ahead was an unnatural pitch-black. He withdrew his wand.

“ _Aqua evanesca!_ ” Snape incanted. Water around him seemed to raise and evaporate, but more simply flooded in its place. He heard shuffling and shouting coming from the Great Hall, from beyond what seemed to be a swirling wall of solid darkness.

“ _Ventus_ ,” said Snape, but the darkness just swirled, thickening. He tried again: “ _Finite!_ _Obscurojinx recanto!_ ” The powder settled and dissolved, clearing like rainclouds. White light stabbed through the shattered windows, and the terrific devastation was visible at last. The Great Hall had been the site of that morning’s breakfast only minutes earlier; now it was overgrown with reeds, moss, and ankle-deep in muddy water. Students and teachers alike were drenched, squinting at the sudden relief of darkness. Food, books, clothes – the tables, and even the curtains were covered in the dark bog-muck. Some of the braver students began to laugh at themselves, and especially when they caught sight of the Hogwarts staff in the same mucky state they were in.

“OUT,” Snape commanded, magically raising his voice with his wand to his throat, striding carefully through the mud. The laughter stopped abruptly. The students were surprised to see the Headmaster at last. “Teachers are to meet with me. All students, form a line at the door. Professor Flitwick, have the prefects see to cleaning the students. Mr. Filch, you will inspect the cleaned students for restricted propaganda.” Silence lapsed into whispers, none too troubled - this was not the worst that could have happened to them. There were sucking noises as students trudged and toiled toward the entrance. Any joy they’d harbored at the incident had evaporated completely, and cries of “ _Scourgify!_ ” echoed across the hall from the prefects as the rest of the professors clustered around Snape.

“Who is responsible for this?” he asked.

“It was that bloody Army!” Alecto Carrow growled, her underbite making her look like some kind of vicious dog straining at the end of a leash.

“Be specific.” Some part of Snape suspected that mischief of this scale couldn’t and wouldn’t have been pulled off without some kind of connection with Potter. If he were here in the castle -

“I saw three stand up, one at each gap in the tables,” Amycus. “Someone gave Creevy a signal and he started snapping away - got himself another ruddy camera, don’t know how. Everyone was looking at the flashes and the blast came from behind us.”

“So you didn’t see anyone,” said Snape.

“Didn’t have to,” said Amycus. “Always the same crowd, isn’t it? Longbottom, Lovegood, Finnegan - “

“And the Weasley girl,” Alecto cut in, through gritted teeth. “I saw her duck out just before everything hit the fan. Probably was her who threw down the Darkness Powder.”

The DA’s previous attacks had largely been vigilantism, saving students from punishments and the like, but this was outright mischief. _A distraction_ , thought Snape. It was looking more and more as though Potter had made it into the castle, for whatever reason he did not know. He would have to plan his next moves carefully, though Potter’s presence did not seem to be of mind for Amycus and Alecto just yet.

Snape’s gaze wandered over to Minerva McGonagall, who was helping Horace vanish several large bullfrogs that the swamp had procured.

“Minerva, as the allegedly responsible students are in your House, I expect your prefects to deliver Longbottom and Weasley to me for questioning and disciplinary sentencing.”

Professor McGonagall looked confused. “Headmaster,” she said, “Longbottom and Weasley _are_ my prefects.”

“Then the responsibility falls to you alone. Professor Flitwick, I expect you to bring me Lovegood, so long as Alecto attests that she was involved –“

“She was,” Alecto nodded darkly.

Snape nodded dismissively. “Minerva, if those students do not come to me by your bidding, I will have Amycus and Alecto assist you to bring them by force. Understood?”

The professor’s lips drew tightly together. “Understood,” she said. When Professor McGonagall disliked someone, she made little effort to hide it from them. With the Carrows, that little pretense was never afforded to begin with.

“Very well,” he said. “Get to it, then.”

They dredged away. Flitwick stood in the middle of one of the center tables, concentrating deeply, muttering complex charms as the mud and water started to ripple and swirl around him, raising up in the air like a cyclone, sailing out the open window and spattering on the frozen surface of the lake.  Dark stains seeped into the cracked ice. Professors McGonagall and Slughorn set to repairing the windows, shards of shattering glass collecting in midair and fusing back together in the mangled frames with squeaking cracks. Filch was checking pockets, leering in student’s faces and watching carefully for any outright conspiratory behavior.

Snape turned to leave, caring not that there was a great deal of cleaning to do. He glided out of the Great Hall, his cloak still muddy and flapping behind him like clumsy wings.

“ _Veritaserum,_ ” he spat at the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office, but the stone creature was already off the pedestal – someone was just there. Someone was in his office. _Potter._ Panic drove through him like a stake in his heart. What was he to do if the boy and his friends attacked him? “Where did they come from?” he demanded of the stone creature, and it pointed to a great tapestry down the long corridor where Snape knew there to be a secret passage. He slid past the creature and hurried up the stairs, slowing toward the top, quieting his steps as he heard voices coming from within the open office door.

“ _Alohomora_ – argh! It won’t open!”

“We should ask Professor Dumbledore!” said a young man’s voice. “Professor? Can you help us? We’re here to help Harry Potter –“

“Everyone, stand back,” said a lofty voice. “ _Expulso!_ ”

Snape felt the force of the charm even from the staircase. Glass shattered and fell to the stone floor. At last, he knew: they were there for the sword.

“Got it!” came the boy’s voice again: Neville Longbottom. More glass tinkled on the ground, and the sound of metal on metal came from him pulling the sword from its holder in the case. “Good thinking, Luna.”

“ _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure_ ,” she took the time to say, evidently as a thank-you.

“Quick, give it here, Neville – the charm.”

“Oh – right –“ There was some scuffling. “Professor Dumbledore – could we ask you – how can we help – “

“Well, you have the sword, do you not?” Dumbledore said. “What you do _not_ have is time!”

“He’s right,” came Ginny Weasley’s voice. “We need to go! The charm won’t work on it, but we’ll just have to hide it somehow–“

“Should we take the Sorting Hat, Headmaster?” asked Luna Lovegood. “Just in case?”

“In case what, Luna?” asked Neville.

“Well, you see, there’s a legend I’ve read about, in which - “

“Fine, grab it!” said Ginny Weasley. “Let’s go!” Their footsteps pounded towards the door, which burst open, Neville first, carrying the sword in front of him, attempting to withdraw its length underneath his robes. The Lovegood girl saw Snape first and gasped, freezing guiltily in her tracks.

Their looks of horror were priceless. Snape nearly cherished them.

He could see the cogs working quickly in their heads: how would they get out of this one? For one small moment, he saw the impulse in Longbottom’s eyes – he would use the sword to his advantage, and attack –

But before he even dared the chance to move, Snape flicked his wand, and the heavy sword flew out of Longbottom’s hands and sank deep into a wooden rafter far above their heads. Their wide eyes followed the path of its motion – all of their hope, all they had worked for, just out of their reach.

Ginny Weasley had her wand in front of her. She had only a second’s hesitation, but it was more than enough for Snape. “ _Stupef-”_

Snape’s shield charm appeared wordlessly in front of him with an upward sweep of his arm before the word had even reached her lips. In the close quarters of the stairwell, the curse rebounded and hit Ginny square in the chest. She slumped back, thumping her head on the railing, sliding down a few steps as she fell. Luna Lovegood gasped.

“Ginny!” Neville cried, but Snape was at him next, he restrained the boy as shining, black ropes snaked out of his wand and bound him tightly, even around his mouth. He tottered and fell over, eyes bulging in shock. Luna flattened herself against the wall. Snape turned his wand on her, but she did not flinch – on the contrary, her glassy eyes were fixed upward at the quivering sword, as though realizing something.

“I’m disappointed in the lack of cleverness from a plan formed by a Ravenclaw,” Snape said, disarming her and catching her wand as well. “A diversion, followed by a quick attempt at snatch-and-grab? Exerting brute force to any that got in the way, including a teacher? Seems, overall, rather – _witless_ ,” he emphasized.

“Well, the sword didn’t respond to our summoning charms,” she explained, her voice not without a warble of fear.

“Give it here, then.”

“Give what, professor?”

“ _Headmaster_. I heard your plans to take the Sorting Hat. Where is it, then?”

“I don’t have it. Neville grabbed it, I think.” She looked dubiously down at her friend, who was still bound and gagged. “Did you take the hat, Neville?”

With wide eyes, the boy shook his head. Snape saw his eyes flicker to Ginny Weasley, her robes sprawled around her. He knew the hat wouldn’t respond to a summoning charm either, so he kneeled and began to search for it.

“There it is,” said Luna, her voice unusually hard. “Her left side pocket, see?”

The Lovegood girl plunged a pale hand forward and snatched her wand back. With a flick of her wrist, Snape did not have time to deflect as he was yanked into the air by his ankle.

He let out a scream of rage, cut short by as she cast a spell to gag him, his lips clamping together as though glued shut. He was helpless - the wands he’d collected clattered uselessly to the floor when he was pulled up by _levicorpus_.

“ _Ennervate_!” said Luna, and Ginny began to stir. She freed Neville from his binds and he helped Ginny to her feet. Snape watched helplessly from above, breathing heavy with fury through his long, hooked nose.

“ _Witless_ ,” repeated Luna, looking up at him. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

“Luna,” said Neville, “The hat?”

“Oh, I have it,” she said, and pulled it from where she’d stuffed it away in the hood of her cloak.

“Er,” said Ginny, eyes wide as she realized that Snape was bobbing above her, hanging from the ceiling like some overlarge bat with his angry, beady eyes bearing down on them. “What’s happened?”

“Long story,” said Neville, before Luna could start in. “We need to get the sword and _go._ ”

There was an awkward pause as the three tried to work out how to get it down from the ceiling.

“We could hack the beam in half?”

“No way, the whole tower could come down…”

Luna looked down at the lifeless Sorting Hat in her hands. “If it’s true what they say about the sword… Here, Ginny, try it.”

“What?”

Impatiently, Luna took her friend’s hand and plunged it inside the hat. Ginny’s eyes widened and she pulled on something heavy. Up above them, next to Snape, the sword vanished, and reappeared as Ginny Weasley pulled it, in its full glory, out of the tattered old hat.

“ _How…_?” Neville asked, his mouth wide.

Ginny laughed and said, “Look! I’m a true Gryffindor!”

“How lovely,” said Luna. “Let’s go.”

There was the sound of sliding stone from below, and Snape could hear Alecto and Amycus harping on  Professor McGonagall, their footsteps echoing up the tower.

“I swear, woman, if you’re hiding them somewhere in that tower –“

“Search it yourself, if you so desire!” McGonagall cried. “If you think I’d harbor them over some simple act of _vandalism_ \- “

There was no avoiding them this time. Snape watched Longbottom stow the sword beneath his robes; Lovegood tucked the hat away in the bucket of her hood once more. McGonagall stood between the guilty parties and the Carrows, committed to hearing their stories before doling out punishment. Ginny Weasley spun some story about how they had left to go to the library just before the explosion happened, and then went to find the Headmaster to try and inform him because everyone else was at breakfast. A stretch, but it made them out to sound like heroes.  

They _might_ have gotten away with it too, had not the mud from Snape’s cloak and boots began to trickle and drip down onto their heads below him.

The Carrows detained the students, who were helpless this time, and Professor McGonagall reversed the Lovegood girl’s jinxes on Snape - but not, he noticed, before a slight and hesitating calculation.

Snape knew that from her standpoint, after what had happened to Dumbledore, she and him were now on opposite sides, ideologically speaking. But he’d learned from careful observation that she could be counted on to keep her place at Hogwarts. The presence of Death Eaters on the staff had not budged her from her from her neutral stance as an educator. She challenged Snape and the Carrows, but did not openly defy them - as Snape had briefly expected that she might. After careful thought on the matter, Snape had concluded that she compromised that part of herself in order to remain a resource to the remaining students at the school. What use would she be, after all, outside of its walls? An insurgence would only prove to target Hogwarts and all its occupants. She could not protect the children, _her_ children, from anywhere else but here. Snape knew that she understood that. From his experience in wizard’s chess she had always been a formidable opponent, always looking for the bigger picture and thinking five moves ahead.

He had his suspicions that perhaps she was helping the student resistance even more than she let on, but until the Carrows or anyone else dredged up any truth of it, he was content to remain passively ignorant.

“Headmaster! You found them – ?”

“Sneaking into my office,” he said, straightening himself. He fought to keep his composure, telling himself that the girl’s use of _levicorpus_ hadn’t been anything personal - it was just a useful spell. Still, it forcibly summoned all his terrible memories of times the jinx had been used on him in his youth. “They stole the sword of Gryffindor and the Sorting Hat, and then attacked me.”

“But - _why_?” Professor McGonagall asked of her students, who had been gagged by magic.

“A ploy, I think,” Snape had no choice to explain, “to try and help Potter.”

The Carrows looked murderous, as if they wanted to start their disciplinary practices right here in the stairwell.

“What’ll it be, Headmaster?” Alecto said, her eyes falling on Ginny. “The Cruciatus? We could do it in front of the students, at mealtime… set an example for the others…”

“I don’t _think_ so,” said Professor McGonagall, moving between the Carrows and the trio.

“Enough,” said Snape. “As headmaster, I will be determining the final punishment for so serious a crime.” He paused. The Carrows looked blood-starved, but the three students, even tied up, looked just as defiant as Professor McGonagall. “I will need time to think on this. Until then, they are to serve detention in isolation from one another. Wands will be held by me. And be sure to keep their locations discreet - I don’t want any daring rescue attempts from their little Army.”

“How long?” asked Amycus.

“As long as I deem it necessary.”

“But - Headmaster,” said Professor McGonagall. “On Christmas Eve…?”

He could tell from the tone of her voice - she knew she was asking for something she knew she would not get.

“On Christmas Eve,” he said icily. “On Christmas Day. Through the New Year, if I decide it. Have the kitchen send them scraps and water. But I’ll thank my staff to respect _my decision_ while I carefully determine what deems proper punishment. Now, _go._ ”

They cleared away, leaving him with the coveted items. The sword of Gryffindor felt too heavy in his hand. When he had finally retreated into the office and shut his door, Snape looked up at the portrait of Professor Dumbledore. It was empty. The rest of the headmasters were in their usual states - dozing off, reading, writing important letters that no one would ever read. He thought wickedly about setting fire to Dumbledore’s portrait. How easy it would be, with just a flick of his wrist, and the rest of the portraits might not ever perturb him again. A pile of ash might be more useful to him than his old mentor’s had been thus far. He spent the day and afternoon reading in his stiff chair, ignoring the hopeful silence that came from the headmaster’s portraits, as they were all starved for details.

Much later in the evening, a knock came from the door, and Snape knew it must not be the Carrows, evidenced by the lack of clumsy bickering.

“Enter,” Snape said. It was Professor McGonagall.

“Minerva,” he said, “are the students situated in their detention chambers?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” she replied, and fell quiet. Her fingers crossed in front of her, and she drew near his desk and took a seat, despite not having been asked in. This made him uneasy. “Mr. Longbottom has been placed in an unused office in the dungeons; Miss Lovegood has been given residence in a room off the old third-floor corridor; and Miss Weasley has been taken to the hospital wing to treat her injuries; after which she will be put up in one of the astronomy tower classrooms.”

“And the Great Hall?”

She gave a wandering glance up at the portraits, and her eyes passed over Dumbledore’s empty frame. “Yes, it’s been taken care of. The house elves are cleaning the residual mess as we speak. Professor Slughorn was worried about some of the tapestries being ruined, but I think the elves’ magic can reverse the damage.”

“Very well,” said Snape. “You are dismissed, then.”

“I actually came up here, Headmaster, to ask if you might wish to join us in the teacher’s lounge tonight after supper,” she said.

“Whatever for?”

“Well, for Christmas Eve, of course,” she raised her eyebrows. “The old staff are keeping with the yearly tradition. Filius is all talk of a Gobstones tournament, and Pomona insists on music...”

“I don’t think it is the place of a Headmaster such as myself to join in on that type of merriment.”

McGonagall let out a little sigh and inclined her head. “Severus,” she said, “I say this coming from a place of mutual respect - which, while I might not call us _friends_ , I feel that we have always harbored for one another. I have always admired your teaching habits as an artifact of your specialty. I realize, additionally, that we all must keep up certain – _appearances_ to those surrounding us, but I simply thought – perhaps because it _is_ Christmas – I thought I might arrange a cease-fire, only if for tonight.”

Snape eyed McGonagall closely, cold fear creeping over his body that she might know or suspect his true purpose. Such knowledge could certainly jeopardize all that they had been working for. No, he told himself, surely, she was trying with every resource she had available to protect her three students from the worst of what punishment might come to them.

Truthfully, a night of joyous merriment in the spirit of Christmas was not Snape’s custom anyway, but music, a hot glass of buttered rum, a belly full of food, and some enchanting music to fill his ears would not be unwelcome to stave off the oppressive dark of the season. But this was not a liberty of the life he had chosen to live. Dumbledore’s empty portrait seemed to gape down at him, making him heavy with guilt and disdain, reminding him that he was to live the life of a Death Eater, he was to live, breathe, eat, and sleep as a Death Eater, and something as pedestrian and routine as Christmas was not an excuse for him to break character and further threaten the thousands of innocent lives that were already at stake.

Snape fixed her with his cold eyes and leaned forward in his chair.

“Get out of my office, Minerva.”

Her head bowed, but not in defeat: Snape could see that it was pity in her eyes. She opened her pursed lips to say one thing more, but was interrupted by another knock at the office door.

“Enter,” Snape said.

Lucius Malfoy opened the door. At the sight of the professor, he asked, “Severus – am I interrupting something?”

“Minerva was just on her way out,” Snape said. She nor Lucius did not acknowledge one another as she left. When the door clicked shut, Lucius drew anxiously toward his desk, and Snape was finally allowed to get a good look at him. The man was gaunt, more pale than ever with a tinge of sickly yellow in his eyes and bony cheeks. Silvery-blonde stubble sprinkled his usually clean-shaven face, and his hair was disheveled, not its usual sleek pallor. Unusually, however, Snape noticed he was dressed in his finest robes, and fitted with an impressively large emerald brooch choking his thin neck.

“Severus,” Lucius breathed, apparently struggling with many things that he wished to say all at once. “Er – how have you been?”

The question required Snape to hide his puzzlement. He was sure he’d never been asked such pleasantries by someone like Lucius Malfoy. He supposed that Lucius must have come to bear some kind of news from the Death Eaters, but whether that news was good or bad, he could not easily determine.

“What brings you to the school, Lucius?” Snape asked, ignoring his question. Despite being a Death Eater and being poised to lord perfectly over his peers, Lucius’ son Draco had not returned to Hogwarts at term. From Snape’s view, his being here was unwarranted and highly suspicious.

“Ah –“ Lucius started, and busied himself with something within his traveling cloak. “Yes – well – several reasons, but first things first – “

He withdrew from under his cloak a black wooden box tied with a silver ribbon, and presented it on the desk. “A Christmas gift, from my family,” he explained cautiously. “Open it, if it pleases you.”

Snape flicked his wand, and the ribbon unfurled itself and the lid on the box swung back. Inside, laid in a bed of velvet, was a pair of matching goblets, shimmering with an ethereal light, with ornate designs of many serpents twisting round one another with eyes of inlaid emeralds.

“These,” Lucius said, taking one from the box, “Have been in the Malfoy family for six centuries.” He held it up, and it caught the light of the fast-fading sun coming from the windows. “We wish for you to have them now. Naricssa and Draco both send their greetings –“

“What is your real business here, Lucius?” Snape asked, losing his patience.

“Let’s discuss it over a glass of mead, shall we?” He procured a bottle from beneath his robes and used his wand to generously fill both goblets while pulling up a chair for himself. Lucius raised his glass to Snape and took a long drink of the dark mead. Snape cast a charm to detect his own cup for poison, but it was safe. He allowed himself a small sip, and once he was done, Lucius began to speak to him, the note of fear and panic in his voice now more pronounced.

“Severus,” Lucius said admirably. “We have been friends for a long time.”

This was debatable. Snape did not say anything.

“I come today to ask for your help,” Lucius went on. “As you know, my family has not been an object of the Dark Lord’s - ah - _favor_ ever since the disaster at the Ministry two years ago-”

“ _Your_ disaster,” Snape corrected him, and took another sip of mead.

“Y-yes,” Lucius faltered. “And although we are – _immensely_ grateful for your intervening in Draco’s mission last year –“

“I took an Unbreakable Vow at the request of your wife and her sister, Lucius. I was cornered by Narcissa’s sentimentality and Bellatrix’s ire. I tell you again, I hardly had a choice.”

“All the same, Severus – your actions allowed our only son’s life to be spared, but your triumph didn’t quite convince the Dark Lord to overlook Draco’s... cowardice. As such, we are... rightfully... suffering the consequences.”

Snape could already tell the direction this conversation was taking him, but he played clueless and allowed himself another drink of mead and a glance around the room to relax his eyes. Dumbledore’s portrait was still empty, although he had no doubt that he was probably listening somewhere off the side of the frame. What a luxury, Snape thought bitterly, to just come and go as he pleased. Ever the same, even in death.

“I come to you today, Severus, to put my family further in your debt and ask that you give us means to return to our Dark Lord’s favor. Any of us will take any kind of special assignment-”

“The Dark Lord _has_ given you a special assignment, Lucius,” Snape said.

With Lucius’ fury came, also, his courage. “What – giving refuge to snatchers and werewolves? Keeping worthless prisoners? Our estate turned into New Azkaban... it’s hardly fitting... and a danger to our family...”

“I think the idea might have been _punishment_ for your family, Lucius,” Snape pointed out.

“Of course you’re right,” he stammered, falling back into his oily and submissive manner. “I understand his intentions completely, I do. And of course we deserve it, and the Dark Lord is merciful. But Severus... if you could do anything, give me some kind of new assignment, or at least express confidence in my family to the Dark Lord...”

“You come to Hogwarts in secret,” Snape said, setting down his goblet and starting to rise in his chair, “Behind the knowledge of the Dark Lord, and ask that I _lie_ in order to get the him to no longer distress your family with the consequences of disappointing loyalty?”

“No – n-never lie to the Dark Lord, I would _never_ – “

“Did you ever stop to think, Lucius, that if your actions today were ever relayed back to him, that he would see them as a sign of disloyalty?” Snape stood from his chair. “Do you know how the Dark Lord handles _traitors_ , Lucius?”

Lucius Malfoy had lost his words completely. He stood from his chair as well, trembling from head to foot, and bowed his head. “I am sorry, Severus. I should not have come. Please... forgive me.”

“I do not think it fair for Narcissa and Draco to suffer from your momentary lapse of all comprehensible judgment,” Snape said, alliterating every syllable, “but be assured that you will all regret the day you approach me or anyone else like this again. I will not allow the Dark Lord to suffer a traitor.”

Lucius’ gray eyes stayed on his feet, growing watery. “Thank you, Severus...”

“Leave. _Now._ ”

Lucius nodded and strode for the door after a short, respectful bow in Snape’s direction. He stopped at the door and whispered, “Happy Christmas, Severus,” before sidling out and down the staircase.

The sun was just about to slip away completely behind the distant mountains and the castle would be drenched in darkness. The tower was cold, and Snape felt chills rake his flesh, even under his several layers of robes, just as a flash of scarlet and gold, like fire, engulfed the outside of the tower.

He strode to the window, searching the pale skies, ears open – listening for the song, for that ethereal singing...

He checked each window of the circular room. The sky was empty, and though stars were starting to show on the horizon, he saw no signs of life beyond the foggy windows. But he was sure he’d seen it: Fawkes, the phoenix, as clear as day, appearing in a burst of flame, circling the tower with that chilling, mournful song. Snape returned to the goblet Lucius had given him, once again checking his mead for any evidence of tampering, but once again, he found nothing.

He locked his door, and felt queasy as he settled once more in behind his desk. The dark blackened over his windows, and he could hardly see the stars outside. On his desk, a solitary candle was lit with great fountains of wax dripping down the sides and coagulating on the holder. A greater chill seemed to descend upon the tower, but Snape did not make to warm himself, as he felt suddenly as if his chair behind his great desk was the only safe place in the room.

In front of him was a book that documented the methods and reigns of dark wizards throughout wizarding history, a book that Dumbledore had suggested he study in his free time in order to become better acquainted with the dark arts. But Snape was not reading, he was staring blankly into the darkness beyond the edge of his desk. He did not know how long he had been dozing off, or whether he had actually fallen asleep at some point. He was startled awake when he heard the sudden grinding of stone come from beyond his door, somewhere below.

There came the clap of distant footsteps up the spiral stairs, straight up to the headmaster’s door. Snape’s mouth grew dry; he stood and gripped his wand inside of his cloak. Every one of the headmaster’s paintings was completely empty, each portrait like a gaping hole.

After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps stopped just outside the door.

There was a very pregnant pause.

Snape jumped as the lock turned itself, screeching like nails on a chalkboard. The heavy wooden door flew open, slamming against the stone wall, sending the whole tower shuddering. Cold air rushed in from the staircase, and the candle on Snape’s desk leapt up several inches in the air, as if frightened as well.

There, in the doorway, stood the ghostly pale figure of Albus Dumbledore.

Snape found himself unable to move, or even breathe. It was not Dumbledore as he had seen him last, but rather, he looked like the constructed charm that guarded Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place: composed of dust, very thin, but nearly as tall as the doorframe, his eyes blank and his expression fathomless and terrible.

“I killed you,” Snape managed to whisper, wishing that something, anything would make this spirit go away.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore – or whatever the spirit was –  said, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to fill the tower. He was like a ghost in his transparency, and yet unlike a ghost in his stretched proportions, his terrible and ghastly visage that seemed to bear down on Snape like a crumbling tower. He gathered his courage, and his will to speak.

“Dreadful apparition,” he said, “why do you trouble me?”

“Because I must, Severus.” It was his face, the very same. Dumbledore, in his usual sweeping robes and with his long, silvery beard. A great chain encircled his body, and hanging from it, a number of ponderous tomes, knowledge that would weigh heavy on the mind, their pages flapping with each step.  His body was transparent, and Snape could see the old man’s hair falling down his back as well.

“Can you sit?” Snape asked.

“I can.”

“Do it, then.”

“Truthfully,” said the apparition, “I’d find it difficult to return to this side of the desk.” His mouth twisted in amusement, but Snape had none to share. As an afterthought, the spirit finally took a seat, the headmaster’s desk stretching an eternity between them.

“You don’t believe in me,” Albus - the ghost - observed.

“I’m not sure if I do or do not just yet,” said Snape.

“Why do you doubt your senses, Severus?”

“I know of no magic like this,” he said, but it was only half true - if Dumbledore’s theories were to have been believed, there was one such stone that would have known a similar power. But that stone was gone now - in the hands of Harry Potter, at best; in the clutches of Lord Voldemort at worst. He might not have known either way. How like his old mentor to have his plans tend on the delicate strings of luck and chance. “Have you sprung to life from your portrait? I would have preferred a guarantee _against_ such a thing.”

Dumbledore gave a smile that was more of a grimace. “I have no doubt of that. Is it not comforting, in a way, to know that there is still some mystery left in this world?”

“It seems a luxury only the dead can afford,” Snape replied.

“Man of no imagination, do you believe in me or not?”

“I do,” Snape decided. “It seems that I must.”

“You have asked for my help after my death many times before.”

“And you have ignored me. You lied to me in life; what difference is there in death?”

“We men of muddled morals - in death, we wear the chains of which we forged in life. I made mine link by link, yard by yard, knowledge obtained and sustained by me, but seldom used for the betterment of those around me. Of my own free will, I forged this chain, and of my own free will, I wear it. Is its pattern strange to you?”

Snape found himself trembling for more than just the cold.

“Or would you know,” Dumbledore pursued, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? Why, it was full and as heavy and as long as this when you started your position as Potions Master. The way you treat your students, I daresay you have labored on it since. It is a twisted and ponderous chain.”

Snape took a deep breath and straightened up, as though he could feel it weighing on him already. “Lecture me then, you beholder of moral hindsight! Or have you come to help me? I have asked for help, and you yet to give it. Which will it be?”

“I have no help to give,” said Dumbledore, with his mysterious smile.

“You always said that death was the next great adventure for an organized mind. Well? Is it all you imagined?”

Dumbledore jumped to his feet, giving a cry of agony, of fury. His mouth grew long, unnaturally wide, stretching to grotesque proportions. He drew up in height, and Snape gripped the arms of his chair with terror as the angry spirit lorded over him. His chains rattled and shook with great clamor, and Snape found himself hoping that someone would hear and come calling, that perhaps the spirit would leave.  

“ _Hear me_!” said Dumbledore, his voice louder, deeper, as he bore down upon the cowering Snape. “My time here is almost gone. I have seen your struggle many and many a day. I am sending help to you, Severus.” He drew a breath, and to Snape’s relief, he began to sink back to his normal size. “A chance for reflection. For penance.”

A furrow crossed Snape’s brow. What help could that possibly be?

“You will be haunted,” Dumbledore went on, his voice returning to normal, “by Three Spirits.”

“I’d rather not,” said Snape.

“Without them, you cannot hope to shun the path you tread. Remember - this is the life you chose - this is the life you swore to. And it is not yet over. Count yourself blessed for that.”

“I cannot,” Snape said. He did not need reminding that Dumbledore had spared his life all those years ago, when he had defected to try and protect Lily. In her absence, Snape had been tasked instead with protecting her son, the Potter family’s sole survivor. At least, that’s what he had thought until Dumbledore made it clear that he was only being protected for… well, no time to think about that now. In this dreadful war, seeing the way things had come to pass, who he could and could not save… he wished that he had left all of it behind. It was a bed he wished he had never made, and Dumbledore’s reminders that he must lay in it did not bring him any solace.

“Expect the first of the spirits tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

Dumbledore’s spirit rose to its feet, and Snape stood, suddenly angry. “Is this it, then?” he snarled as the apparition turned its back to him and started for not the door, but the tall window overlooking the lake. It jumped open more and more with each step he took. “Is this the design of your grand plan? Is this the best that the mind of the _great_ Albus Dumbledore could have come up with?”

The spirit turned to him once more. “Severus…” he said, his voice unimaginably weary. “Please…”

And Snape’s breath caught as the apparition fell backward out the window. Snape gave a cry and rushed forward, looking out onto the vast grounds.

The air was filled with phantoms, floating and wandering in restless haste and moaning as they went. They were different from the usual Hogwarts ghosts - everyone of them wore chains like Dumbledore’s apparition; some were linked together - none were free.

But whether these phantoms faded into mist, or the mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. They and their voices faded together, and the night grew black and silent once more.

Snape closed the window and double-checked the lock with his wand. From the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of his former mentor from the beyond, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, he went straight to bed without undressing and fell asleep in an instant.


	2. Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape is visited in the dead of night by the first of three spirits, and shown glimpses of Christmases past.

Snape awoke with a start in his four-poster bed in his headmaster’s chambers, the velvet purple curtains completely drawn to shut out the light. It took him a moment to realize what had woken him so suddenly, and he remembered – a crack like a whip, loud and very close to his bed.

He plunged a hand through the curtains, reaching for his wand on the bedside table, but could not find it. He tore the curtains aside – a pair of bulbous eyes were staring fearfully up at him by the light of the dying fire: a house elf, dressed in a dirty sweater and a pair of mismatched socks, with a purple tea cozy pulled over its bat-like ears, and clutched in its tiny hand was Snape’s wand.

Snape lunged for the creature, but he disappeared with another loud crack and appeared on the far side of the room.

“Give me my wand!” Snape snarled. “I order you to give it here!”

The elf held the wand in between his two hands, points digging into his palms, and clapped his hands together. The wand disappeared.

Snape was confused and furious. “How – how  _ dare _ you –“

“Dobby is a free elf, sir!” He squeaked, pushing out his tiny chest, and Snape could barely see an “R” knitted in his knobbly sweater. “I have come to show the professor how things once were!”

“How did you get here? Who sent you?”

“Do not ask of Dobby! He only knows what he was told by the Headmaster, sir!”

The elf was defensive, his tiny fists balled, even as Snape drew closer to him from across the room.

“What headmaster do you speak of, elf?”

“Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, sir!”

“ _ I _ am headmaster of this school. Professor Dumbledore is dead. Give my wand back and begone from this castle.”

“I will only go when I do what he asked of Dobby, sir.”

“And what exactly did he ask of you?”

“It is my instruction, sir, to show sir the shadows of things that were!” 

Before Snape could work out what this meant, Dobby leapt forward suddenly and took a fistful of the hem of Snape’s robes. There was another loud crack, and they struggled against the suffocating sensation of apparition. When he was finally able to suck in a breath again, he found himself standing on a street that he had not seen for quite some time. Even under the thick blanket of snow, he was able to recognize the houses, quiet and serene, with candles in the windows, luminaries in brown paper bags lining the street, and each front door adorned with a small Christmas wreath. 

“Do you know this place, sir?” the elf squeaked.

“Know this place? Of course I do. This is Spinner’s End. This is the street where I grew up.” It was not Spinner’s End as he knew it presently; as he had been living in his old house for some time – but rather, it was Spinner’s End from his childhood. The long rows of thin brick buildings stretched far in the distance, like a city of gingerbread houses, bright and cheery, much different from the misty nabe he was familiar with now. “Elf... Dobby. How is this possible? How are we seeing this? How were you able to disapparate from Hogwarts?”

“What makes sir so certain that we have actually left the castle?”

Snape did not understand. He felt moody and vulnerable being so far from the castle and without his wand. The air was bright and cold, but Snape stayed comfortable and dry, even as they trudged shin-deep through the snow. Dobby stepped gingerly toward the last house on Spinner’s End, and Snape had no choice but to follow.

“Dobby – is this a trick of the pensieve?”

But the elf did not answer, and instead strode right up to the window of what Snape recognized as his old house, some thirty years earlier. He sensed movement inside, but stayed at a distance for fear that he might be seen. 

“These are but shadows, sir, of things that might have been!” said Dobby, beckoning him. “They have no consciousness of us!” 

Entranced, Snape stood alongside the elf, peering in the frosted window to the small living room, neatly lined with bookshelves that reached the ceiling. A fire was lit in the hearth, and a scrawny Christmas tree made from muggle plastic stood in the corner of the room, adorned with tarnished baubles and sparse tinsel, with few gifts under its branches, all wrapped in brown paper and twine. In the armchair by the fire sat a sullen-looking woman with dark hair and a familiar long nose – it was Snape’s own mother. She had a book open in her lap, but was leaning on one arm, not reading at all but lovingly watching a scrawny young boy with black hair at work on the living room rug in front of the feeble fire. 

Snape realized that of course, he was looking at himself as a young boy, perhaps four or five years old. His clothes were patched and a plethora of sizes – his sweater falling over his eager little hands, working fast at folding the newspaper, while his pants were tight and rising just above his ankles. His stringy hair fell over his pale face, but parted back as he raised his head to look up at his mother. He’d finished what he had been working on, and carefully put it in her lap – it was a bird, folded from the paper, with a round body and a small beak and wings outstretched: an owl.

A smile broke his mother’s face, and she picked up in admiration as if it were a precious treasure.

She said something to him, something they could not hear, and his small hands made a platform on which she returned the paper bird. His mother reached in the breast of her cardigan and withdrew her wand. Young Snape’s face lit up, and with a familiar swish and flick, the paper owl rose into the air, and by the movements of her wand, dipped and flew around the small room. Snape could hear his younger self let out a belly full of laughter. He stood and chased it around the room. 

It was a rare sight to see his mother and himself so carefree, and at the back of his mind he knew that his father, Tobias, must have been out. His presence, he recalled, was palpable and joyless enough to snuff a candle. He watched his mother gather him in her arms to help him finally catch the owl, and together they placed it at the top bough of the tree in lieu of a star. 

Snape, out in the snow with Dobby, put a hand on the windowpane. “I wish - ” he muttered, but shook his head, “but it’s too late now.” 

“What is the matter, sir?” 

“Nothing,” said Snape, “nothing. My mother’s smiles were rare. While she was on this earth, I would have liked to see her smile more, that is all.” 

The elf regarded him thoughtfully, and reached for a fistful of Snape’s sleeve. “Let us see another Christmas!” 

Snape’s former self grew larger at the words, and the bright living room became a little darker and more dirty. The rug faded, the plastic tree grew more sparse and thin, and the small fire in the hearth went out with a whisper. He was still quite young, and all alone in his home on the holidays. 

There was the crunch of footsteps and Dobby and Snape turned to see, once more, a younger version of Snape himself – taller now, looking slightly less malnourished, but with his muggle clothes as faded and patched and mismatched as ever. He shut the door with his mittened hands, holding tight a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and adorned with a ribbon no doubt designed by magic to look like a wintry rose. He took off with brisk purpose down the snowy lane. 

Together, he and Dobby followed the boy, Snape marveling at how small he once was. Teaching students had made him long forget that he had ever been one himself.

Twelve-year-old Snape walked and walked, leaving Spinner’s End and heading for the nicer row of houses up on the hill. He found the house he was looking for and climbed the front steps and stood staring at the door. He raised his hand to knock, then caught sight of the muggle doorbell. He considered for a moment, then jammed his mittened finger on the bell and held long. Inside the house, Snape could hear the prolonged ringing and the frenzied patter of footsteps toward the door.

“Coming, coming!” said a cheerful voice of a young girl, and the door flew open to reveal Petunia Evans, age fourteen, wearing a new Christmas dress with her golden hair done up in shiny, spiral curls. Her thin but rosy face spoiled her cheerful expression at the sight of Snape. 

“Get your finger off our doorbell!” she snapped at him.  

“Is Lily here?”

“She’s out –“ Petunia started to say, but was cut off.

“Tuney, who is it? Oh! Severus!”

It was Lily, also in a new Christmas dress, her long red hair falling over her shoulder in a shiny plait.

“Tuney,  _ move _ , please,” Lily said, gently nudging her sister aside, who was still staring daggers at Snape. She skipped outside onto the front step with him, crossing her arms in the cold after closing the door behind her. “How are you? What are you doing here?” 

“I brought you a Christmas present,” young Snape said, handing her the parcel, which she took reluctantly, looking puzzled.”Happy Christmas, Lily!”

“But I thought you were staying at school again for Christmas?” 

“No, I came home,” he replied. “I just couldn’t find you on the train.” Snape remembered the lie: he had actually been detained by a Hogwarts prefect after a fight with the young Sirius Black over train compartments. 

Lily looked troubled. “It’s just... Oh, Severus, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just a little strange, asking around for someone like this on Christmas. What about your family? Don’t they want to see you and spend time with you?”

“Are you going to keep asking questions, or are you going to open your present?”

She smiled, and looked down at the parcel in her hands. “Pretty,” she mumbled, admiring the bow, which she carefully peeled off the paper and stuck to her golden headband. She pulled off the paper wrapping which revealed a treasured old book. 

“ _ Exceptional Charms _ ,” she read. “The handy handbook for any practiced witch or wizard...”

“It’s full of these strange charms, and it teaches theory of how to create your own,” said young Snape. “I’m sure no one our year would be able to do them, except you. And anyway, you’ll always be able to use it down the road from now.”

This book, Snape recalled, had actually been stolen away from his mother’s library - she would have been too ill by then to notice it missing. 

Lily was already thumbing through the book, eyes wide as she pored over the pictures describing the charms, and stopping on a page near the end depicting a flower petal transforming into a goldfish. She smiled. “This is wonderful, Severus. Thank you so much. I feel just awful now because I didn’t get you anything yet, and this is such a lovely gift.”

“Don’t feel awful,” Snape said. “I’m just glad you like it.”

She reached up and gave him a quick hug. “I should go back inside, though, it’s so cold and my family was just starting dinner. But I’m so glad you stopped by. I’ll see you later during the holiday perhaps, okay? Stop by again, will you?”

“Okay,” said young Snape, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Happy Christmas, Lily.”

“Happy Christmas, Severus, and tell the same to your family, won’t you?”

Both Snapes looked as though they did not want her to leave, but she skipped back inside her house, giving her friend one last rosy smile, and the winter afternoon seemed even colder without her there.

Snape watched his younger self go, heading home slowly now, keeping his hands in his frayed pockets, staring down at the frosted cobblestones, daring a glance back at the house every now and then and betraying his secret smile. From the front window, Lily watched her friend go down the lane, until she heard someone calling from within and darted away. 

“A lively girl, sir,” observed Dobby. “With a large heart.” 

“I will not gainsay it, spirit,” Snape trembled. “She was undeserving of the death she was given.” 

“She died a young woman,” Dobby said, “and had, as I think, children.”

“One child,” Snape returned. 

“You know him, sir?” 

Snape seemed uneasy in his mind and answered briefly, “Yes.” 

Without another word, the elf grabbed his sleeve and pulled him in the void once again. When they appeared, Snape had thought for a moment that his journey must be over - but the light was different, the atmosphere crackling with excitement and cheer, the furnishings around him were lavish and exuded an air of self-importance. 

“You know this place, sir?” 

“Of course I do. Hogwarts is my home.” 

A stout man stood with his back to them as he straightened a picture on the wall. He turned as the clock chimed, adjusted his waistcoat, smoothed the ends of his enormous moustache, and clapped his hands together. “Well, boys,” said Professor Slughorn in his rich, jovial voice as he entered the adjoining room, a long and dark potions classroom, “time to clear away, then!” 

The small crowd looked up from their books. Whatever work they were supposed to be doing, it was clear they hadn’t been doing it. Snape saw his gangly teenage self, then Miles Avery, Rabastan Lestrange, and Rian Mulciber. He recalled how they used to skulk around the potions classroom during off-hours, away from the Gryffindors and watchful eyes of more vigilant teachers. 

“Sir?” said Avery. 

“You heard me - clear it all away! Push the tables along the wall, now, vanish those chairs somewhere - make plenty of room for the party!” 

But of course - Slughorn’s Christmas party, Snape realized with an inward groan. He and his…  _ friends _ had not been born to the same affluence of so many of the partygoers, but they brought some talents to the table that made Slughorn tolerate them at least. Slughorn relied upon them for favors or labor or sometimes just ears to wax on about all his well-made connections, and in this sixth year (as Snape suspected that it must be) the jovial old man had begun to call upon young Snape to assist in grading his student’s essays - in exchange for extra credit, as well as his discretion. 

“Clear away!” cried Professor Slughorn. Why, with magic, there was nothing they wouldn’t have cleared away, or couldn’t have cleared away - it was done in a minute. They were not a well-liked or charismatic bunch, but knew that others would be arriving soon, and they wouldn’t hear the end of it if their peers caught sight of them toiling away like house elves. They levitated in trees filled with lighted bushels of fairies, tipped more fuel on the fire, and the usually dank and cold potions classroom had turned itself into a snug gem, warm as a cottage and bright as a ballroom. It was exactly the kind of place one would like to find oneself with friends upon a cold winter’s night. 

In came the musicians - some old students of Slughorn’s who Snape idly remembered had gone on to become world famous.  _ The Strange Siblings _ ? Something cheeky like that. They set themselves at one end with their drums and guitars and equipment, making an orchestra of it, and tuning like fifty stomach-aches. In came the professors first, jolly and as ready for the holiday as any of their students, and Slughorn’s boys saw to it that they each had a cup of mulled mead in hand before they’d crossed the room. Then trickled in the students, peeking in and never wanting to be among the first to arrive, but when Slughorn clapped his hands and the long tables filled with food, they filed in, unable to contain themselves. There was Christmas cake and treacle tart, great platters of sausages speared with toothpicks, piles of pasties, and hot butterbeer being served from a tapped keg. Mulciber went chasing after some girl, Lestrange went for the food, and Avery stuck around with Snape complaining under his breath about the party and all its patrons, while secretly looking as though he wanted to give in and socialize. Peter Pettigrew was laughing overloud at something James Potter was saying while Remus Lupin smiled idly at nothing, a ghost of an expression on his face as though he were worrying about something far off and away. Sirius Black’s eyes hounded around the room, searching - and finding their mark - the caustic teenage beauty, Marlene McKinnon, and he slipped away to pursue her like the wolfhound he was. A triumphant and cool Narcissa Malfoy showed her new engagement ring to her gaggle of friends - it was widely known now that her family had arranged a match with the illustrious Lucius Malfoy, former head boy who had graduated Hogwarts several years before. Many traded  _ ooh _ s and  _ ahh _ s and made well-mannered remarks on how their children would certainly be a product of good breeding, and Narcissa would laugh her tinkling laugh and say that of course they weren’t thinking about anything like  _ that _ just yet. The band struck up a song and only a brave few began to dance, but as the night went on nearly everyone joined in. Professor Kettleburn, with many more limbs than Snape had last seen him with, was leading the students in a kind of circle-dance with much linking of elbows and trading of partners - an old-fashioned custom, but one that the students took to with much glee. Even Slughorn, after making his rounds of the room, offered his arm to a much younger Madame Rosmerta, who had stopped by to deliver some of her famous mead, and together they took around the room, spinning like a pair of fizzing whizbees. 

During the whole of this time, Snape had stayed along the edge of the room, people passing through him like ghosts, searching for…  _ her _ . His younger self, dressed in unceremonious black like his companions, stood sullen on the edge of the dance floor, watching, calculating. Dobby, who Snape had almost quite forgotten, watched him curiously. 

“What is the matter?” asked the spirit. 

“Nothing particular,” said Snape.

“Something, I think, sir?” the elf persisted. 

There it was: young Snape moved, quick as a snake and joined in the circle dance just as the song ended and partners were trading off. He stopped and planted his feet, resolute and determined, but the smile of the red-haired girl in front of him vanished like breath on the cold air. Her hand paused, and she look as though she might snatch it away - that, or slap him across the face. But Snape persisted, holding his arm out to her. 

“Lily,” he said. “ _ Please _ .” 

The music struck up again, and she relented -  _ against my better judgement _ , her expression seemed to say. They started to dance, Lily following the steps and Snape stumbling foolishly along as best he could. He was as determined to communicate with her as much as she was to ignore him. 

“Are you leaving for Christmas?” he asked, his low voice barely carrying over the din of the music. 

“It’s Tuney’s last year at home,” said Lily. 

Snape saw his younger hold back a grimace. “So is that a yes, or a no?” he asked, and when Lily rolled her eyes, he said, “Come on - I know how she’s sometimes so -”

“So what?” she dared him. 

“Antagonizing,” Snape finished, in what he must have felt was a brave yet tactful way. 

“Yes, well it seems that these days I’ll remain  _ antagonized _ whether I choose to go  _ or _ stay,” she snapped, knowing that Snape would of course be staying at Hogwarts for the holidays. “After I specifically asked you not to,  _ why _ are you talking to me, Severus?”

Snape saw his younger self blanch at the use of his full, seldom-used first name. “What happened to  _ Sev _ ?” 

“I don’t know,” she said cooly. “What happened to  _ mudblood _ ?” 

The words barbed the young man such that he stumbled, but Lily kept dancing. Snape, determined, recovered himself and skipped ahead to match her step as they whirled like broken sneakoscopes on the edge of the merry crowd. 

“I’ve said I was sorry,” said Snape. “Dozens of times I’ve written you, tried to speak to you, and you won’t listen. The word just slipped out - of course I didn’t  _ mean _ it! It was just a word, Lily. A mistake. Words cannot wound, you always told me that.” 

“Words from your  _ enemies _ cannot wound. Clearly you never listened.” 

“Please, Lily. What can I do to deserve your forgiveness?” 

“I can forgive a slip of the tongue. It’s the company you keep now that tells a tale of your true feelings toward me.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Tell me you’re not so naive, Severus. Avery, Mulciber? Their families, their connections… the way they  _ collect _ people from inside the school for dealings on the outside. If you’re part of their doctrine, you’re safe from harm, is that it?” 

“And what’s so wrong with making connections?” he asked, daring to be defiant even in the face of asking for her forgiveness. “This is the even-handed dealing of the world,” he went on, “a struggle of connected circles versus connected circles. There is nothing so demeaning to a person as a lack of power; and there is nothing which the powerless condemn with such severity as the pursuit of control.” 

She stopped for just a moment, looking like her heart had broken. “Listen to yourself!” she said, before falling back into step. “You fear the world too much,” she told him, and he had nothing to say to that.

He tried another approach. “ _ You _ have other friends besides me - always have. And never have they cared for my company.” 

“Because you’re  _ sullen _ ,” she said, “or because you’re disagreeable, or because you fight with their friends! Never because of the circumstances of your birth. And I’ve  _ always _ defended, you, you know I have! If our friendship was true, you would at least reciprocate in that regard. But you won’t - you’ll just turn on  _ me _ instead. Try telling Mulciber off next time he hisses the  _ M _ word at me when we pass in the hall. Try telling Avery or Lestrange that I’m no less of a person, and no less of a witch because I go home to my loving muggle family for the holidays. Then we can speak of even-handedness.” She thought for a moment, then said, “The only even-handed acts of this world are those which we extend unto others.” 

“There, see? You sound like your old self again.” 

“I haven’t changed, Sev,” she said sadly, and his heart ached hearing that old familiar nickname once more. “Our friendship is an old one; it was made when we were both outcasts and content to be so, as long as we had each other. You were someone else back then.” 

“I was a boy,” he said, “and without the wisdom I have now.” 

“Your own words, your own feelings tell you that you are not what you once were. I still am. If we hadn’t met before now, would you choose to befriend someone like me, knowing the status of my blood?” 

“What does it  _ matter, _ if by my connections I’m able to protect you?” 

At that, she stopped dancing and turned to face him, her voice deadly calm. 

“It matters little to you, very little, I can see that now. And what you understand about my circumstances, even less. A summer without my friendship and others have replaced me, and if you think they can bring you safety and comfort and self-worth by filling your head with such ruinous ideas, then I have no just cause to grieve for losing you. And so long as you continue to follow in their footsteps, to stand silent while they enforce their ideals, then just the same, I have no just cause to forgive you. I won’t have this conversation with you again.” Her eyes were filling with tears, but she shook them back, defiant. “I release you, with a full heart for the person you once were.” 

It was Lily who left first, and Snape saw that as she turned away from his younger self, her tears began to fall. 

“Spirit,” he said, “show me no more. Conduct me back to my office.” 

“One shadow more, I think, sir!” squeaked Dobby. 

“No more,” he pleaded. “I do not wish to see it.” He tried to back away, but the party was too loud, the elf too quick, and as he grabbed hold of Snape’s sleeve, the scene around them melted away. 

They were in another time and place; a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near the winter fire sat a young man, so like his former student, so like Lily’s boy that his heart raced in alarm at what he thought must be present day - until he realized he lacked the necessary scar and forest-green eyes of his mother. The man took in a deep and over-dramatic breath, then threw himself forward over the bundle in his lap and blew a long, loud raspberry. The bundle shrieked and wiggled, tiny baby fists grabbing at his father’s shaggy hair, and Snape understood that he was looking at James Potter with his infant son, Harry. 

Beside him on the sofa sat Remus Lupin,  _ giggling _ as Snape had never seen him before, his eyes brimming with tears of irrepressible affection for the boy. As James withdrew his head, baby Harry grabbed the glasses off his father’s face and flailed them around with glee. James took them gently, then properly fitted the overlarge pair on his son’s face so that his big green eyes blinked at twice their normal size and sending the two young men into another lapse of giggles. 

A  _ flash! _ came from the kitchen, and there she was - beautiful as ever with her red hair tied back and wearing a flour-dusted apron. She was holding what had to be a muggle camera, and winding up to take another picture. Remus shyly pulled up a pillow so he was covering his face, and Lily scolded him until he sat nice for a picture with James and the baby. 

But the flash never came. “End of the roll,” she said, popping the knob and starting to wind the film back into its canister. “These are for mum - she doesn’t admit it, but I think she’s still a bit freaked out by wizard pictures. I’ll send it to get developed with Peter and Sirius,  _ if _ they ever plan on showing up.” 

“Speak of the devil,” said Remus, nodding to the front window. 

They didn’t knock before entering - there was no need. Peter Pettigrew had been the family’s Secret-Keeper, and as such was the only one who knew how to find the Potter’s cozy home in Godric’s Hollow. They were rosy-cheeked from the cold and laden with packages and presents. There were greetings and struggling to set everything down and they took turns passing around the baby until he started to frown and quibble from all the excitement and was passed hastily to his mother where he buried his face in the comforting crook of her neck. 

“Ho ho ho!” said Sirius Black, putting packages under the small tree. “I hear that Father Christmas is bringing little Harry something  _ very _ special for his first year.” He indicated a long, thin package that he placed with importance under the tree. 

“That better not be what I think it is,” said Lily, accepting a kiss on both cheeks from a very merry Sirius, who was at the height of his health and splendor, not a shade of the haggard wretch he’d become after his escape from Azakaban until his death. “He’s too young - Sirius, he’s only five months old!” 

“Old Fleamont told me he bought James’ first broom for him when he was just four months old,” said Sirius, “and look how he’s turned out.” 

“Spoiled rotten,” Lily teased her husband. 

“Besides, it only flies about  _ yay _ high off the ground,” he said, stooping to indicate with his hand about halfway up his shin. 

“Well I just hope you bought a helmet for him, too, then.” 

“ _ I _ did,” said Remus, putting a reassuring hand on Lily’s shoulder. 

“Peter’s got your letters, Lil,” Sirius deferred her, so that he could circle around her and say a proper hello to his godson. 

Lily gave their pudgy young friend a hug and a kiss as well. “You’re a funny-looking owl,” she said, and Peter laughed. He always had such a nervous laugh, even when it was genuine. Lily handed the baby off to James, who pointed and showed his son the brightly-wrapped presents under the tree, as Lily combed through the stack of letters that, being in hiding, they could no longer receive by owl post. 

“Oh, look! Petunia’s sent a card.” 

“Has she? That’s odd.” 

She passed around the still photo of her prim blonde sister holding her chubby and blue-eyed little boy. It was a standard holiday card of their three-person family - no sentimental note or personalized well-wishing at all. Lily seemed happy to have it none the less, and Sirius and James took turns making fun of her sister’s husband’s aggressive moustache. 

“How was Mum?” she asked Sirius. 

He exchanged glances with Peter. “Same,” he said. “Well - she’s stopped knitting, now. Says it tires her out more than anything, and she’d rather have the energy to write you than keep making hats, so.” 

“And the therapy, it’s…?”

“It’s taking its toll,” said Peter. “But she says she does her best to stay positive and that she has friends looking after her. She says, stay safe, don’t worry about her, enjoy your holidays, send pictures, write if you can. And of course, she sends her love.” 

“How does she feel about spending Christmas in the hospital?” 

“Er… what was it? Oh, she said,  _ it’s not my first time _ . I think she was talking about when your dad -”

“Yeah,” Lily nodded, cutting him off. She looked away to wipe her eyes with the corners of her apron. They were all suddenly very quiet and serious, and when Lily noticed, she put her hands over her face. “I’ve ruined the mood!” 

There was an uproar from the four young men, hugging her and assuring her that she hadn’t ruined anything, that Christmas Eve dinner smelled heavenly, and that maybe they could all use with a strong glass of eggnog. 

“Oh,  _ Lil _ ,” said Sirius, suddenly remembering and butting back into the conversation. “We saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.” 

“Who?” 

“Guess!”

“How can I guess - oh, _Sirius._ ” She put her hands on her hips. “You and Marlene didn’t…” 

“ _ No _ ,” he assured her. “No, no, no. I got enough of your death threats from last time; don’t you think I wasn’t listening. Guess.” 

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “Severus Snape.” 

“Snivellus Snape it was,” he said, and Lily’s jaw dropped. “When Peter and I went round to your mum’s place to feed her cats and collect the post, there was a knock on the door. Well, you can imagine how much we were expecting  _ that _ . So I peeled Peter off the ceiling and we threw the cloak over ourselves and went to look through the front window and there he was, peering inside like some hook-nosed gargoyle.” 

“What?” asked Lily, her cheeks coloring. “Whatever was he doing there?” 

“Well, I wanted to grab him and find out,” said Sirius menacingly, “but Peter here said that’d be a bad idea and put a target on your mum’s house for Death Eaters. So we stayed put and watched him go.” 

“Aw,” said Lily. “You’ve grown up so much since Hogwarts.” 

“Yeah, so then we followed him to see what he was doing.” 

Her eyes popped. “ _ What _ ?” 

“Well, he had a package under his arm, see. It looked like a Christmas present, but it couldn’t have been, could it?” 

Lily considered this. “Did he do anything with it?” 

“Before he left, it looked for a moment like he might want to leave it there, but evidently he changed his mind. We followed him back to this dumpy row of houses called -”

“ - Spinner’s End,” Lily finished. “How terrible. He always hated it there. Especially after his mum passed. Was there anyone with him?” 

Sirius and Peter exchanged glances. “No, I don’t think so,” said Peter. “We saw in the window to his sitting room where he slipped the package into his bookshelf and sat for some time gazing endlessly into his fireplace. He was quite alone in the world, I do believe.” 

“How awful!” said Lily. “And on Christmas Eve! Nobody deserves to be alone on Christmas Eve.” 

“Well next time, let me know, and I’ll invite the slimy git over for pudding,” said Sirius, and Lily scowled at him. “I just mean… you’re too kind to think on someone like him, after all he’s done to this world.” 

“He  _ and _ the Death Eaters, Sirius,” James said pointedly. “He alone can hardly be blamed for half of You-Know-Who’s movement. She and Severus were very good friends once, remember?” 

“Well, as someone who was  _ raised _ in a family of Death Eaters -”

“ - You overcame great odds and turned out to be the best ally that the Order could hope for and you’ve never looked back,  _ blah blah blah _ .” James threw a pillow from the sofa at his friend to show he was teasing him, but also warning him to leave well enough alone. “If we all had a fraction of the compassion that my darling wife does, the world would be a much better place, I think.” 

“It just seems strange,” said Lily, “that after all these years, he’d try and make contact. After all that time, do you think he’s changed his mind?” 

“Likely a scouting attempt,” said Lupin. “In a way, we’re lucky your Mum wasn’t home, Lily.” 

“He’d never…” She shook her head. “He’s so different from the boy I was once friends with, but I still think, he’d never do anything like that. Not to Mum. She liked to buy him socks, you know - after she saw that his always had holes in them. Used to embarrass him so much, but I… I think he was grateful for it.” 

“Let’s say he changed his mind,” said James, as he cradled a fussy baby Harry, “said bugger all to the Death Eaters and tried to come to our side, do you think you’d have it in your heart to forgive him?” 

She kissed her husband gently on the cheek. “I’ve always forgiven him,” she said. “Or, I’ve always been ready to, if he truly wanted to change. After all he’s done, I’d be worried that he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

“Spirit,” said Snape in a broken voice, “torment me no more; remove me from this place.” 

“I told you, sir, these were the shadows of things that have been!” Dobby squeaked. “They are what they are - do not blame Dobby!” 

“Remove me!” he cried. “I cannot bear it!”

He turned upon the elf, who tried to leap away, but Snape caught him by his bony arm and squeezed tight. “Leave me! Take me back, and haunt me no longer!” 

Dobby snapped his fingers, and Snape was back in his headmaster’s quarters. His fist was closed around his wand instead of the elf’s wrist, and he relaxed his grip. The spirit was nowhere in sight, and there was no evidence that he had even been there at all. 

Snape was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness. He set his wand on the table and barely had time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep. 


	3. Stave Two: The Third of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape is visited by the second of three spirits and shown visions of the wizarding world at Christmas present.

Snape woke in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, holding no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. He felt that he had been restored to consciousness right in the nick of time, for holding conference with the second of Dumbledore’s spirits. Well, he decided, _it_ would have to come find _him_. He stayed trapped up in the four-poster, shivering himself awake, until he realized there was warmth coming from beyond the curtains. Dry heat, just waiting to envelop him. He reached out to draw aside, readying himself for a broad range of strange appearances that he might find waiting for him.

Being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing. The bell struck one, and no shape appeared, but the heat was flooding from the door in his living chambers that led out to his office. Firelight was dancing, lighting the edges of his door - that much he could tell. He rose softly and shuffled to the door.

The moment his hand was on the lock, a familiar voice called him by his name, and bade him to enter. He obeyed.

It was the headmaster’s office; there was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation: the walls and ceiling were so hung with living green of the Forbidden Forest that it looked like a perfect, snow-dusted grove, from every part of which bright and gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the firelight; and such a warm and mighty blaze went up in the hearth. Heaped upon the floor where his desk might have been was a long table bearing every kind of food and drink he might think of. In easy state behind the table there sat a jolly half-giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, which he held up to shed its warm light on Snape as he came skulking around.

“Come in!” the spirit exclaimed. “Come in and know me better, man!”

“But I do know you,” said Snape, for the spirit had the enormous and unforgettable visage of one Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts. He was clothed in an enormous set of red robes lined with soft, white fur; his sled-sized feet were bare and stretched before him; and on his head he wore a crown of holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. And yet, as he looked upon him, the spirit’s face was strange to Snape - younger, even, than Snape had ever seen him. Wrinkles had not carved at the corners of his beetle-black eyes; his cheeks under his glorious beard were rosy red and smooth; and he was free from the silvery strands that Snape was sure had begun to spot among Hagrid’s thinner mane. He seemed at the height of his youth and health - perhaps forty years or more young than he must have known the man to be. “What magic is this?”

“You’ve never seen the like of me before, have yeh?”

“I thought I had,” Snape shook his head. “Perhaps some time ago…”

“Perhaps,” the spirit agreed, his voice resentful.

“Spirit,” said Snape, “conduct me where you will. If there is a lesson to be taught here, teach me, and let me profit by it.”

“Ready to listen now, are yeh? Touch my robe, then,” said the giant, holding out his arm, and Snape did as he was told.

The world blurred as they passed through walls of stone and wood, and suddenly they were in a room in the castle that Snape did not know. It was strewn about with cushions here and there, bright hammocks hanging between great columns of stone, and an enormous table with a map of the school stitched together from a patchwork of different pieces of parchment. It struck Snape as a kind of barracks, but more shoddy and slapdash than one might see for outfitting proper soldiers. There was a great roaring hearth, and desks for doing homework or brewing potions.

Whose common room could this be? He saw students wearing all colors - though noticeably little green, and only slight numbers of blue. They were, many of them, younger students, passing little bright-wrapped presents among friends, yanking at crackers and making such a noise as they rolled on the common area floor like excited pups. Snape recognized several faces as muggle-born students having been marked missing from weeks or months ago. Could they have been staying here, in this secret room in the castle, the entire time?

A worried knot of older students stood by the door. “Any word?” asked a girl, Hannah Abbot, a Hufflepuff girl with golden pigtails.

“I saw the Carrows taking Ginny somewhere up in the astronomy tower when I was coming from our common room,” said a Ravenclaw, Padma Patil.

“And Filch was taking some scraps from the kitchen down to the dungeons,” said Gryffindor, Seamus Finnigan. “More than likely they split them up; makes it harder for us to try and break them out.”

Another Hufflepuff surprised them by squeezing through the cracked door, appearing out of breath.

“Susan! Any news?”

“Caught some people coming from Slug Club,” she explained, as the others ushered her into a chair. “Had to bribe Zabini; he told me Slughorn let it slip that Luna was somewhere right near them - off the third floor corridor.”

“So then Neville’s down in the dungeons,” said Hannah with a worried frown.

“I was right,” said Seamus, “split ‘em up. And on Christmas eve, too, the jackals.”

“There’s no hope that they got it, then?” asked Padma. “They made it sound like it could really help Harry…”

“We can try again,” suggested Hannah. “Maybe they… Maybe they know something now that they couldn’t have known before.” There was optimism in her voice, but it was clear that none of them, even Hannah, really felt it.

There was a commotion again at the door, and they moved aside to make way for three students - Parvati Patil, pushing a heaping cart covered with a white cloth; and Colin Creevy and Michael Corner, carrying one large platter between them. The younger students cheered them in and made space on one of their tables for the platter, which turned out to be an enormous turkey - a few slices carved out of it, and not as hot or juicy as it had been when the house elves had sent it to the Great Hall many hours ago, but edible just the same. The rest of the cart was filled with whatever they could scrounge up: mashed red potatoes and a tureen of brown gravy; treacle tart and an assortment of half-eaten pies; flaky rolls with warm butter; and best of all, a keg of Butterbeer. Snape thought guiltily of the enormous table of food that the giant had brought to his quarters; that he might have given it to these hungry children.

“Lost Students line up first, please!” called Lavender Brown, emerging from the crowds and rushing over to help her harried-looking friend. She’d unearthed a stack of humble-looking plates and dishware. “If you already ate supper in the Great Hall, please make sure you’re behind anyone who’s in here for good!” Lavender went down the line, making sure that every student had a small mug, that they might all get a sip of Butterbeer with a thick head of foam on top.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to get anything tomorrow,” said Padma, joining the older students by the door, who hadn’t joined the festivities just yet. “The house elves said that Filch and some dregs from the old Inquisitorial Squad were sniffing around more than usual to try and catch us.”

“If it gets to that, we’ll ask Abe if he can send more to help,” said Hannah.

They glanced over their shoulders at a large portrait which, like Dumbledore’s in Snape’s office, stood empty.

“Right,” said Seamus. “Neville’s the only one who can bargain with the old codger, and he’s locked up for who knows how long.”

“Until Snape decides their punishment,” said Parvati.

Heads swiveled in her direction. “ _What_?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “That’s what I heard while we were out. Snape caught them himself and told the teachers he’d need the whole night to think of how to punish them.”

They were silent as the waves of terror for their captured friends washed over them. “To be doled out on Christmas,” said Seamus, grinding his teeth.

Snape had never thought of the pallor the mention of his presence might cast on a group of merry individuals such as this. “They fear me, spirit,” he said to the giant, more as a question than anything else.

“Indeed,” was his reply.

“And why? I have done nothing to them.”

“Nothing!” cried the spirit.

“Nothing directly, at the very least!”

“ _Directly_!” cried the spirit.

“I have kept my presence to my tower!” said Snape. “Away from any interference, so that none may suspect my role in this war.”

“If I saw you suffering and I sat here and did nothing,” said the spirit, “would you not consider that harmful?”

“Well, I - “

“ _Directly_ so?”

“I might think - “ Snape stopped. “The last spirit did _precisely_ that, and yet did not abate my suffering! In fact, I wonder if he encouraged it!”

“I certainly would have,” said the grumpy giant.

Snape looked upon the students again, cold and worried as the younger ones went on with their merriment and their plates of food. They all seemed to be trying to think of some solution, or at the very least, something of comfort they might say to one another.

“Oh, spirit,” said Snape, “let them forget these worries - just for tonight. At least let them be put in back of mind.”

“A change of heart, have yeh?”

“Last night, I looked upon Christmases of the past and learned from them well,” he said. “Even the students who don’t celebrate the day - let goodwill and friendship warm all hearts and cease their worries tonight.”

The spirit looked upon him with suspicion, but raised his torch so that its radiant warmth washed over their fretful crowd. They all seemed to feel it at once, for the color returned to their cheeks, and friends reached for one another to embrace or instill comfort.

“Come on,” said Lavender Brown, taking Parvati by the hand, “let’s get something in our bellies before try and figure this one out.”

“Who’s in for one game of gobstones?” asked Seamus, and the group chimed in as they moved toward all that was merry and bright in the cavernous room.

Snape felt the warmth faintly reach his own heart, and the spirit held out his tree-trunk-sized arm for Snape to grasp his sleeve once more.

“Is it an animal?” said a voice.

“Yes.”

“Is it a _live_ animal?”

Professor McGonagall faltered. “It depends on the day, I suppose. We think so.”

“Is it a beast of some kind?”

“Oh, indeed.”

“But where can it be found?”

“Yes or No questions, Horace.”

“Does it live in England?” asked Professor Sprout.

“Yes.”

“Is it slippery?”

Professor McGonagall bit her lip. “Some would say so. Yes.”

“Does it roam wild?”

“Er… no.”

That surprised them.

“Does it live in a cage, then?”

“Why, yes.”

“Under a master?”

“Yes…”

They were in the teacher’s lounge. The professors were all seated, comfortable, all had drinks in hand, and all looking more relaxed than they had all year. The Carrows were noticeably absent - Snape suspected the others had purposely avoided telling them the location of the teacher’s lounge all year to keep them out of it. They volleyed guesses back and forth of every captive beast they could think of, McGonagall turning them down every guess, until -

“Why -” Professor Trelawney snorted into her sherry. “I’ve got it!”

“A third eye answer, Sibyll? I don’t know if I can accept - “

“It’s Professor Snape!”

There was a short bout of murmuring as they put the pieces together: _beast, captive, master, hardly alive…_ _slippery_. And then they broke out into laughter. Professor McGonagall looked slightly abashed that she’d even thought of such a thing, and Professor Trelawney chastised her for it.

“Don’t be embarrassed, my dear! Where is he tonight, anyway?”

“Turned down my invitation, I’m afraid,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Minerva. You didn’t invite him!”

“I did!” she said. “I am very sorry for him. I offer him a cease-fire, a night without judgement, and he turns me down, flat out. And for what? He misses a night of merriment and music with his dear and esteemed colleagues.”

Professor Trelawney, perhaps because of her excess of sherry, was angry on Professor McGonagall’s behalf. “He didn’t even come down to supper, and I suppose he won’t be down for the feast tomorrow. Oh, I wish he _were_ here! I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and hope he’d have a good appetite for it.”

“Hear, hear,” said Professor Slughorn. “To spare the rod, Minerva? Is that why you asked him? Surely.”

She shrugged. “If he happened to, he’d find himself better for it. But no, I asked him because he’s a sallow shell of a man who lets each miserable day pass from behind a locked door in his ivory tower. He’s the type of person who Albus would have tried to reach out to if he were still here.”

“He _did_ try to reach out to him, for many years, and in the end it got him killed,” said a morose Slughorn. He took another long pull on his drink to try and bring the joyful color back to his cheeks.

“There’s a cure for most of the things in this world, and it’s kindness,” said Professor McGonagall. “Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always.”

“And the rest of us,” pointed out Professor Sprout. “Certainly his students.”

“By his ignorance, to be sure. Yet you can’t deny that his ignorance has also helped us out on more than one occasion.”

“May it continue to aid us in the new year,” Professor Sprout reconciled. She raised her glass and they drank to it

Snape, growing hot with embarrassment, was gracious as the Spirit took his arm and they flew weightlessly through solid stone from the castle and into the cold night. Could his colleagues really have such an opinion of him? Had it always been this way? If so, Minerva really had no cause to extend such mercy to him, it seemed.

“Got nothing to say about that, do yeh?” the spirit asked.

By the light of the moon, Snape caught sight of the spirit’s face, which looked suddenly older, less boyish and more the hardened face of a man grown. Even more curious, as they flew over streams of the forest where centaurs cantered and chased their hunt, they passed a clearing where a giant in chains was cradling a hairy figure only half his size, who himself was cradling an empty bottle of firewhisky and snoring loudly.

Snape looked sidelong at his companion, as though he might admit to some kind of mischief, but there was no change in him except for a twinkle in his beetle-black eyes. He raised his torch to anoint them for a brief moment, and they flew on. Snape was dizzied. Was this all a dream? Was the half-giant aware of his acquaintance to Snape? Could either of them keep what they learned upon waking?

They flew and flew through the starry night. Much to Snape’s chagrin, they descended upon the handsome spires of Malfoy Manor, through the outer facade and straight into the dining room. Snape’s stomach soured; it was the place where, months earlier, he’d watched a former colleague be served as dinner to the Dark Lord’s snake, Nagini. The woman had looked Snape in the eye and pleaded with him for her very life. At least, he’d reflected, she’d been given the mercy of the killing curse before being swallowed whole. Snape had been forced to watch the scene with outward calm as the enormous creature retracted its fangs and unhinged its jaw until all that remained of Charity Burbage was a human-sized lump in Nagini’s long belly.  

The Malfoys sat at one end of the excessively long table, as did Bellatrix Lestrange, who leered at the passing house elves as they took empty platters of food back to the kitchen. None looked overjoyed to be there, nor particularly charmed by their lavish dinner. Then again, for a family as wealthy as the Malfoys, there was no need to stand on ceremony: every meal was like a holiday. From the hall, another Death Eater informed Bellatrix of snatchers incoming with prisoners, and Bellatrix left the hall with Draco in tow, the hungry look back in her eye.

When she was gone, Narcissa leaned forward to look her husband in the eye. “Well?”

Lucius looked over his shoulder to make sure that Bellatrix was truly out of earshot. He shook his head. “He turned me away.”  

“ _What_?” she hissed.

“We cannot talk about this, Narcissa. He made it clear that - “

“And you gave him the gift, as I instructed?”

Lucius worked his jaw. “If you thought I was going to do it _wrong_ , you should have just gone yourself. I don’t apparently have your knack for persuading others into Unbreakable Vows.”

“You were persuaded into an Unbreakable Vow,” said Narcissa, “perhaps you remember, it’s called _marriage_ . And look how much good that’s done for me. For your _son_ , Lucius.”

“I know,” he hissed back at her. “He threatened me, Narcissa. Implied I was a traitor.”

“And you think he didn’t do the same to me? To Bella?” She shook her head and gave a derisive laugh. “Raise a glass to him, because he’s the only reason any of us are still alive. Perhaps my parents should have arranged my marriage with Severus instead of you. Half-blood, pure-blood, what’s the _bloody_ difference? Surely not efficiency, or the understanding of sacrifice.”

“Narcissa - you can’t _say_ things like - “

“This is _my_ house. Under its roof, I’ll say whatever I please.” She stood and tossed her napkin at a passing house elf. “You chose this path, Lucius. Just remember that.” Over her shoulder, she added, “Some Slytherin you turned out to be.”

In the hall, a wild group of snatchers had brought in a young man, Draco’s age, and - Snape realized with panic - a former student of his.

“Tell us your name again,” one of the Death Eaters nudged him forward.

“Dean Thomas,” he said loudly. “Muggle-born and proud of it. Hey there, Draco… you get to make it back to Hogwarts this year? Heard your favorite teacher is masquerading as headmaster.” He had scrapes and bruises, and looked like he had been in the woods for some time by his wild hair and the state of his clothes. His eyes were glinting with nerve, but the boy was still trembling, on the verge of madness or tears - the look of someone who knew, and accepted, that he might die today. “And you. You’re B-Bellatrix Lestrange.”  

Bellatrix ignored him and screeched at the crowd of snatchers, “Just one? Just _one_ mudblood for Christmas?”

“We brought you something else,” another said, and pushed forward a sullen-looking goblin.

She looked him over, appraising him. “Gringotts stock, are you? ‘Course you are. What else is your kind good for?” The goblin made no answer, but watched her pace with his shrewd little eyes. “You might actually be of use to me.” The snatchers looked relieved, until she rounded on them again. “That’s _all_ you brought me?”

“We had two more, but they didn’t… they’re dead, now.”

“Names?” she asked, but none seemed to want to meet her eye.

“Dirk Cresswell,” said Dean Thomas, “and Ted Tonks! _Heroes_!” he cried, tears now shining in his eyes. “And they took a couple of yours with them! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, you bag of - “

But Dean’s voice dissolved into an unbroken scream as Bellatrix sent him to his knees with the cruciatus curse. The boy howled, and Snape had to remind himself that he was less than a shadow to them, that he could do nothing to help him. Bellatrix held the curse, her eyes bulging as she listened to the unpracticed screams of someone who had never felt the cruciatus before. She released him and turned to her sister with a cruel smile.

“Did you hear that, Cissy? Ted Tonks _._ Our poor sister, a mudblood’s widow.”

Narcissa did not answer - she was staring at Dean Thomas.

“After not speaking to her for twenty-some years, it’s the best thing we could have given her this Christmas. Don’t you agree, Cissy?”

“Miss Lestrange, would you like to take care of this mudblood yourself?” one of the snatchers asked, trying to appeal to her favor.

“If you’re going to kill me,” breathed Dean from the floor, “just _do_ it.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard, boy? I like to play with my food before I eat it,” Bellatrix said, and raised her wand -

“Wait!” Narcissa interjected. “Are we sure he’s… mudblood? Surely, someone checked the registry.”

“Never registered,” a snatcher told her.

“Cissy,” said Bellatrix impatiently, “didn’t you hear him? ‘Mudblood and proud,’ he said.”

“Your father, boy, who was he?”

“I n-never knew my…” Dean’s eyes darted around the room. “What does it matter? He went missing when I was - “

“I’m sure he did,” she said, “and never returned, did he? You have your mother’s name, do you? _Thomas_. Muggle name. Your mother changed yours after your father disappeared. What was your father’s name?” Dean stared at her, hardly believing any of this was real. “Was it Fawley?”

“How did you - ?”

“Bella,” Narcissa turned to her sister, “he’s a half-blood. The late Matthias Fawley’s son. Just look at him.”

Snape remembered Matthias, last of the Fawley line, a noble family of pure-bloods - a kind and handsome young man; their circles of acquaintance rarely crossed over. Narcissa’s claim brought to light what Snape had never bothered to see in the boy: an uncanny likeness to his supposed father. Narcissa, who’d been an appraiser of pure-blood suitors since she before she was old enough to even think of marriage, must have spent long days imagining herself with someone like him - that had to be why she’d recognized him so quickly. Matthias had been handsome, to be sure, but had little for money and prospects, and more likely had no interest in someone like her. If he recalled correctly, the Fawleys of modern time had never put any pressure to marry into pure bloodlines - hence, his son, Dean, from his muggle mother. The Death Eaters, Snape included, had never known about his muggle family - he must have escaped to try and save their lives. Snape felt a sudden sense of kinship for the boy, being half-blood himself, and a rush of relief for Narcissa’s keen perception.

“So _what_ if he’s half-blood?” Bellatrix demanded.

“The Fawleys were - or, _are_ \- among the noble pureblood families. Matthias was hunted down and killed during the first war for refusing to join our side, but the Dark Lord later said - with the rareness of pure blood these days -” She broke off, and Snape understood: she didn’t want to say the Dark Lord had made a _mistake_ , allowing his death, but that’s what it was. “I don’t know the consequences of spilling a halfer’s blood without the Dark Lord’s permission. I don’t wish to find out.”

“Fine,” snapped Bellatrix, turning back to the boy and the goblin. “I guess there’s plenty of room in the dungeons for both of you.”

And Dean Thomas, unable to believe his luck or his parentage, was hauled away by snatchers as the spirit held out his sleeve once more.

“Spirit,” said Snape, when they were airborne again, “I wonder if my position in this war is not as unique as I thought.”

“Hm?”

“I only mean, Narcissa… She’s sacrificing everything for her family. She always has been. It is where her true loyalty lies. And she saved that boy when she certainly didn’t _need_ to. I’ve never thought to consider how she really felt about all this.”

The giant just rolled his eyes at him.

“You look older, spirit,” Snape remarked.

“It’s a short life, this one,” he returned. “Just here to spread my cheer. And some perspective.”

The giant took him to the home of the Weasley family, where Mrs. Weasley cooked in a frenzy while venting her anxieties about the welfare of her two youngest children to an endlessly patient Kingsley Shacklebolt. Her twin sons, Fred and George, listened to their brother Bill tell animated stories about the things he’d dealt with working alongside goblins at Gringotts. And in the living room, Bill’s beautiful wife, Fleur, bent over the pregnant belly of a grinning Nymphadora Tonks, whose hair was a cheery Christmas red.

“Oh! There’s a kick,” Tonks said, and Fleur laughed, delighted. “Somebody must _like_ you.”

“Have you two decided on a name yet?” asked Arthur Weasley.

“Oh - we didn’t tell them, did we?” she said, looking up at Remus Lupin, who smiled shook his head. She turned to Andromeda, her mother. “Mum, we’ve decided to name it _Edward_ , after Dad, if it’s a boy. And _Hope_ , after Remus’s mum, if it’s a girl.”

Her mother was teary with pride, but said, “You mean, you don’t want to name it something like _Andromeda_?” and laughed along with the others. “Edward. Little Teddy. That’s wonderful. That’ll swell your dad’s head right up wherever he is now, god bless him.”

“So it’s a muggle name either way. Your side of the family will be just chuffed about that.”

Snape had been agitated with the scene before him for some time now, and the spirit took notice.

“What is it, then?”

“Remus Lupin - is having a _child_ ?” he said through gritted teeth. “He’s a _werewolf_ . A dangerous creature enough to have _around_ children, let alone fathering them. Doesn’t he know that his child will be -”

“- Loved?” The spirit interrupted. “Unconditionally?”

Snape fell silent, recalling a jest the Dark Lord had made when they’d received word about the Lupin-Tonks union. _What say you, Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?_ Somehow, he couldn’t see the child living, realistically, in a world of the Dark Lord’s design. They would be too different, and be culled like the others.

And the spirit wasn’t wrong: the love between Lupin and his wife was as bright and apparent as the stars in the sky. Lupin looked happy with her, happier than he had looked in years, despite all he’d been through. Once, the man before him had seen a return to a normal life when he came to teach at Hogwarts. But Snape had ruined that for him, in his hatred and fear for what he was, by purposely letting slip his condition to the Minister of Magic. If he were to change his ways, he owed to Lupin to see that the man’s child, however he or she came out, deserved a fair and happy life.

“Spirit,” said Snape, “What will become of their child?”

“And why do you care, all of a sudden? _The die has been cast on your part; the others will have to sort themselves out in this mess_.”

Snape balked - those were thoughts he’d never spoken aloud, but the spirit was repeating them back to him, throwing them in his face as if he’d said them to him directly.

The giant frowned, as though he had forgotten himself. “Er, hard to say. These are dark times… the future for any of us is very uncertain. Oh, what am I saying - you’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

He took the spirit’s arm automatically this time, and they were off. They flew over camps of muggle-born refugees, who dotted the country far and wide, and the spirit held his torch aloft and shed upon them its radiant warmth. It was nearly morning, Christmas morning, when they came upon a ginger-haired boy huddled in a grimy pub, bent over a wireless radio, which he kept discreetly trying to tap with his wand.

“Got a light, love?” asked a passing muggle woman, pointing to a lighter-shaped lump in his pocket.

“Sorry, no,” he told her. She scowled at him, suspicious, but skulked away.

Snape turned to the spirit. “But he’s alone. Where are Potter and Granger?”

“Lost from him, I’m afraid,” the spirit said. “You of all people should know how fickle some friendships can be.”

“I’d always suspected the spattergroit was a trick of some kind, but I never thought…”

Then they heard a voice: “ _Ron_.” The boy sat up and looked around the pub.

“Hermione?”

The bartender stared at him, but the boy wasn’t crazy - Snape could hear the voice too, quiet and small: “ _When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again…”_

Ron grabbed his bag and radio and went outside into the quiet street, where snow was starting to fall. He skittered down the alleyway and turned in all directions, listening for her: “ _...He had to get a new one.”_

Ron reached in his pocket and pulled out - _Dumbledore’s deluminator_. Snape’s mouth fell open. How had the useless gadget fallen into the hands of Ronald Weasley?

Sure enough, that was where the voice had been coming from. The boy clicked it once, and a ball of light appeared at the end of it.

“Hermione?” Ron said again, and the ball started to hover toward him until it - Snape blinked to be sure he was seeing things clearly - passed _into_ Ron Weasley, just near his heart. The boy stood for a moment, the concern on his face dissolving into realization, and there was a _crack!_ as he disapparated on the spot.

“Spirit! What’s happened? Where has he gone?”

“Why, he’s gone to try and find -” The giant broke off, looking embarrassed. “Er, hang on, I may have forgotten ter show you one more scene. Jus’ a sec.” He concentrated, and Ron Weasley reappeared and walked backward into the pub as the morning sky seemed to draw back on itself and grow to the dark of night once more. His spirit companion began to age rapidly as it did.

“Spirit - you can control time?”

“Ah, just a bit. As you can see, it takes its toll,” he said, gesturing to his graying beard and wrinkled face. He stooped lower to the ground, and his torch was held not so aloft now; he had not the strength anymore to carry it so high. “Take my sleeve. This’ll be the last vision I show you.”

It was close to midnight again. Houses and towns blew by them in a blur, and they stopped at last on a quaint and quiet snowy lane outside of a small church.

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” said a voice.

Snape turned, but it was only a mousy-looking muggle woman and her balding husband.

“Is it?” asked the man. It was a curious reply. She _had_ called him Harry, hadn’t she?

Snape inspected them closely, and as the woman suggested they look in the cemetery for the man’s parents but stopped and gazed up at the war memorial obelisk that melted to a statue of the Potters before the eyes of wizards, he knew: they were using polyjuice potion, and this was Godric’s Hollow.

“He’s alive, spirit!” Snape said. “Harry Potter is alive!”

“Of course he is!” the giant said gruffly.

Snape followed them gleefully as they passed through the kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard, the beautiful music from the church making him positively buoyant. “What brings them here, spirit? Sentimentality, or could they be searching for… Well, I’m not sure what they’d be searching for here…”

The giant watched them silently, the teenagers moving clumsily about the snow in adult bodies, brushing off headstones and obelisks to read the names underneath. They bent over a grave, excited, and Snape moved closer to see that it was the burial site of Dumbledore’s family. The woman who was Hermione Granger moved on to another stone, which she mistook for Potter’s family, but the grave was much, much too old. She pointed out a symbol, one that Snape recognized because Albus had tried to impress its importance unto him: a line, inside a circle, inside a triangle. The symbol of the legendary Deathly Hallows. He still was not sure that he believed it. But by some stroke of genius, Hermione Granger had found herself on the thread of Dumbledore’s suspicions of the stone, wand, and cloak. Snape found himself blessing her for her cleverness, for if there was something to that plan, she would surely be the first to figure it out. He did not need her to mention him by name or memory to now feel sorry for all the times he’d badgered her, abused her, and outright insulted her in front of her classmates. Why had he behaved in such a way? Why did he despise her kindness, her earnest for learning and understanding? Of all the people he’d treated poorly in his life, he felt now most sorry for his behavior toward her. With a mind so brilliant and a heart so steadfast, how much brightness would be lost to the world if this war claimed her? She was a muggle-born, and one of Harry Potter’s best friends. Hermione Granger was marked for certain death, yet she kept on fighting the good fight, no matter what odds were stacked against her.

The carols faded away and the church grew quiet and dark as the muggles inside shuffled back to their warm homes. At last, they found them: the marble-white graves of Lily and James.

Snape stood in front of the man that was Harry Potter, watching his grief pour out of him like an ocean swell. If he could reach for the boy, offer him comfort…

But Snape knew he’d be unwelcome. The visions that his spirits had showed him were proof of that: wherever he walked upon this earth, there would be someone there who hated him. And rightfully so. He had no doubt that he deserved it. Even in his vow to care for Harry Potter, Lily’s only son, he’d been needlessly antagonistic, spurred on by a grudging dislike of the boy’s father. As if the boy could have helped who his father was, or how much he looked like him. And James - James had saved his life once. He’d made Lily happy. He’d helped make Harry, who had saved the wizarding world once before. By no choice of his own, if luck and careful planning provided, he was set to do it again. The injustice of the boy’s death had weighed heavy on him since Dumbledore had informed him of its necessity, yet over time he’d learned to ignore it, accepting not without a grudge that such things couldn’t be helped, as if they were meticulously lorded over by the great and powerful men of the world. But now, the boy was within arm’s reach, alive and in front of him, and he could feel that heavy weight pull on him again.

Would that he might take the boy’s place! It crossed his mind now, but he wasn’t certain how it could ever be. He’d sworn an oath of protection for his love for Lily, but he owed a debt of life to James Potter, a debt of gratitude to all who raised the boy and saw to his safety. Snape understood that he owed the boy his life more, far more than twice over.

But what could he do? Snape pondered on this as he and the spirit followed the pair of disguised young wizards back out of the cemetery. They sprinted down the road as one of them caught sight of the Potter House Memorial; it was clear that they’d never seen it before.

“Spirit,” Snape pleaded, “tell me there is another way. Tell me that Harry Potter - that his friends, his new family, might live.”

“I see…” The giant looked hard at their silhouettes, concentrating, speaking with a voice that was not quite his own, “I see a broken wand. Holly and phoenix feather. Its owner… dead. I see a shallow and unbecoming grave… and none come to mourn.”

“So he has no choice.” But Snape would not resign to that, as much as it pained him. He’d been tasked with the boy’s protection. And though he was far, far from Snape’s reaches, there had to be some way he could help him - help all of them. He looked up at the ruined house, wondering how he might start to repair such devastation, and did not notice the shuffling old woman approaching Potter and Granger until she was upon them.

“Are you Bathilda?” Harry, in disguise, asked her.

Snape turned, cold fear drawing his throat tight. “No,” he whispered, but none could hear him.

The woman nodded, and as they moved slowly with her, Snape noticed a glint around Potter’s neck - _the locket_. The one that had been stolen from Umbridge’s ministry office earlier that year. He had learned from Dumbledore that it was important to the Dark Lord in some way - how, he did not know, but he had his suspicions.

“No, no, no,” Snape moaned as they tried to interact with the woman. He knew, from the privilege of his position, that they’d planned such a trap months ago. Bagshot was stalwart in conversing about Dumbledore - she’d painted a target on herself anyway. Snape himself had been the one to suggest that they leave a post at her residence, as he’d learned from a letter Lily had written long ago to Sirius Black that she and Bathilda used to visit on occasion for tea. Perhaps, he’d suggested to the Dark Lord, Potter would stop by to try and find an ally of Dumbledore’s, or his mother’s. He’d stolen the second page of the letter from Number Twelve, Grimmauld place but left the first, never thinking that Potter would follow such an obscure set of clues to actually lead him here.

Snape guessed that she had been dead about a month, now. Whatever had been done to her, he could only suspect. But the duo had never met her before, and by the dark of the street, they couldn’t get too good a look at her. They were wandering blindly into a trap set by dark magic.

“Spirit,” he appealed to the giant, “there must be something we can do. Stop them, or - warn them somehow -”

“ _Now_ you want to help?” the old giant asked, incredulous.

“Please. I’ve learned much from these shadows I’ve seen; for once, let them not be shadows, take me to this place, in person -”

They had come upon her house now.

“I cannot,” the spirit said, leaning wearily on the garden gate as the unfortunate party passed through. “I am too weak, now. My time is… almost over.”

The creature that used to be Bathilda Bagshot fumbled with her key at the door, and led them inside.

“Do you… wish to follow?” the giant wheezed.

Snape faltered, knowing they were helpless. To his surprise, angry tears began to fall down his long nose. “If we are helpless, spirit, no. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see Harry Potter die like this.”

“Your tears,” she spirit observed, but said no more.

“I couldn’t save her,” he said. “I can’t save him.”

“You would like to?”

“I would. I’d die again and again, if I could. For him, for all of them. I’ll go back and change my ways at once.”

“And how? If you ‘defect,’ who will take you?” the giant said. “After all you’ve done to them, do you think they’d take you back with open arms? After you’re forced out of the school by one party or another, which Death Eater becomes headmaster then?”

Snape hung his head. “I know the hand I was dealt, spirit. If only there were some way…”

“But there _is_ some way,” he said, “there’s always a way.” But before Snape could implore him further, there came a scream from the house. Shards of glass exploded from an upstairs window.

“He’s coming! _Hermione, he’s coming!_ ” came Harry Potter’s polyjuiced voice, and the giant was so weak that he knelt upon the ground, but Snape couldn’t pay attention to that, he passed through the gate to get closer, panic driving through him -

There was scuffling, and Snape cried out as the two flung themselves from the upstairs window. A white hand snatched after them, but the little woman who was Hermione twisted in the air - and disappeared.

The red eyes and bone-white face in the dark window above contorted in fury. The Dark Lord _screamed_ , and Snape reflexively reached for his Dark Mark, knowing that if he were out of the spirit’s shadow of things that were that it would be on fire with his master’s rage.

“They made it!” Snape said thickly; his tears had subsided and he turned back toward the gate. “They escaped! Spirit, did you see? They -”

But the spirit had gone. The church bells rang one, and Snape was utterly alone. He recalled the prediction from the vision of Dumbledore in chains, and felt the harsh cold rake over him before he saw the lone and final spirit emerging from the cemetery, tall and hooded, gliding down the empty lane toward him, with a pale and rotting hand outstretched. It beckoned him.


	4. Stave Four: The Last of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape is visited by the last of three spirits and given a glimpse into the future of the wizarding world.

The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. It was shrouded in the tattered but ageless black, leaving nothing of it visible save its one terrible, outstretched hand.  _ A dementor _ , Snape thought, but he was already crippled with hopelessness and despair from the last spirit. This phantom brought, instead, a solemn and ominous dread. It halted near him, its faceless form gazing down upon him as they stood, silent and alone, in the middle of the chilly lane. 

“Are you the spirit who has come to show me shadows of the future?” Snape asked. 

The spirit did not answer, but pointed beyond. 

As he turned, Snape found that they were no longer in Godric’s Hollow. They stood along a lane that he recognized to be Diagon Alley, heaped with dirty snow, fallen into abandonment and disrepair, just along the junction to the more sinister Knockturn Alley. A group of three snatchers huddled on the corner, leering at every common passer-by, but talking among themselves. 

“No one knows much about it,” said the first, “only that he’s dead.” 

“When’d it happen, then?” asked a second. 

“Last night, I believe.” 

“And the Dark Lord killed him?” said the third, lowering his voice. 

“That’s what they’re saying,” The first one yawned. “Bugger knows why. That Lestrange hag thought he was a traitor since the first war, I heard her say once. No doubt gloating over it now.” 

“And if he wasn’t?” asked the third, anxious. “If he’s killed him just because he wanted to? Then what’s loyalty going to mean to anyone anymore, well?”

“It’s not got to do with loyalty,” reasoned the first. “Nobody liked him. He’s long outlived his usefulness. And the Dark Lord’s got his new servant now. What’d he need him for anymore, eh?” 

The third shuddered at this mention. “Have you been near him? That…  _ thing _ ?” He pulled his arms tight around himself, as if to keep out the cold. “Dark, dark magic that is. I don’t like it.” 

“Don’t  _ like _ it?” the first laughed, “What’d you bloody thought you’d signed up for?” 

“Hunting mudbloods,” returned the third. “That’s what I bloody thought I’d signed up for. Not…  _ that _ . I say there’s a line between life and death, and that  _ thing _ being paraded around has crossed -”

“Keep it down,” warned the second, as a group of Death Eaters proper drew near them. The snatchers bowed their heads respectfully, but the Death Eaters ignored them. Snape noticed a huddled figure take advantage of the snatchers’ distraction to sneak past them down Knockturn Alley unperturbed. Something about his hobbled gait was familiar, and Snape followed him, with no concern for if the phantom would follow as well. 

The stranger hurried down the lane, bothering none who he passed, but slipped into the imposing facade of Borgin & Burke’s. 

“Good morning,” came a voice from the back of the shop. “Are we buying or selling -” The man’s voice cut short as the stranger drew off his hood. “Oh, it’s  _ you _ ,” the shopkeeper said snidely. “Selling then?” 

“Pleased you remembered,” said Mundungus Fletcher, faking his politeness. He heaved a heavy bag off his shoulder. “Think you’re gonna like what I have this time.” 

“You say that every time, but it’s never once been true.” Mr. Borgin had dropped all pretense of respect, and leaned expectantly on the counter. 

“One of these days,” said Mundungus, still bent over, “I’m going to bring you something really spectacular, and maybe you’ll start to be as oily to me as all the others who walk in here. What do you want to reckon that day is today?” 

He straightened up and put an assortment of graceful silver instruments on the counter, some whirring and occasionally emitting puffs of smoke. Borgin stared at each one in turn, unimpressed. “What are these?” 

“ _ What are these _ , good one,” Mundungus snickered, but looked up at the shopkeeper at his silence. “Are you serious?” He looked at the instruments, then back up at Mr. Borgin. “You mean you  _ really  _ don’t know?” 

Snape had spend enough time around the sneak-thief to spot one of his bluffs, and was sure that Mundungus hadn’t a clue as to what the instruments were either. Snape himself had no idea of their purpose, beyond existing for Dumbledore’s amusement. Mr. Borgin, however, attempted to cover up his perceived lack of cognizance, perhaps out of the fear that this dirty little man might have some edge on him where rare artifacts were concerned. “And how much are you looking to get for them?” 

Mundungus scowled. “How much am I - ? Look, you know what, I’ll just bring them to someone else who knows what they’re dealing with,” he said, and started to put them back into his bag.

“How about - five,” Mr. Borgin stammered.  

“Five,” repeated Mundungus. 

“Five…” Letting himself get intimidated by the look on Fletcher’s face, he said,  “Galleons.” 

The thief raised his eyebrows. “I hope you mean  _ each _ .” 

Mr. Borgin glanced down again, counting. “I think that’s fair, don’t you?” 

Mundungus held his scowl just a moment longer before breaking an amiable smile. “Tell you what. I’ll let them go for that cheap because I  _ know _ you’ll want what I’m going to show you next.” 

He revealed a handsome box, which Mr. Borgin opened to inspect an ornate pair of silver goblets. He tried to hide his appreciation, but did not need to, for Mundungus had already brought out the next item: a shallow silver basin, its edges covered in mysterious ancient runes. He then laid, with some sentimental care, a shabby wizard’s hat, motionless, but with a line of crude stitching along the brim. 

“I want to ask how you got your hands on these,” said Mr. Borgin, “but I have an idea I won’t like the answer.”

Mundungus stretched his hands out to show some humility. “Who’s the worse for the loss? Certainly not a dead man, eh?” 

Mr. Borgin nodded, understanding, and his relaxation with the idea seemed to heighten his acute interest in purchasing. 

“This technique for inlaying the emeralds… I’d guess sixteenth century, but I can’t be sure. I’ll have to have them appraised…” he eyed Mundungus, who looked sour about the idea, “But I can approximate a figure that I think you’ll like, Fletcher. And I’ll give you a hundred galleons for the pensieve, but you can take the hat. I’ve no need for it.” 

“None of us do anymore,” said Mundungus, stowing the Sorting Hat away. “I’ve got one last thing for you. Hang on, it’s bloody heavy -”

He managed to heave a long, thin, cloth-wrapped bundle on the counter. He pulled the wrapping away, and Mr. Borgin inhaled sharply. He scanned over every inch of it, hands hovering inches off the long, silver blade and the inlaid rubies of the handle, not daring to touch the Sword of Gryffindor. 

“I’ll guess you need to appraise this, too,” said Mundungus. “I’m sure between us we can scrounge up a goblin to give it a look.”

“No need,” said Mr. Borgin, waving the idea away. “A goblin would just want to steal it for himself. I can determine its authenticity. Trade secrets and all that.” He added, in an attempt to be furtive, “And you know, perhaps I’ll take the hat after all.” 

Mundungus raised his eyebrows. “Why?” 

“Sentimentality,” was Mr. Borgin’s excuse, but Snape knew he was covering his tracks in case Mundungus or anyone else he knew learned the hat’s legend that could lead to an untraceable theft of this new acquisition. They haggled over prices, and Snape turned to the phantom, who now stood beside him in Mr. Borgin’s shop. 

“Spirit,” he said, “I have no doubt the unhappy man who was killed was me. The snatchers on the corner spoke of death at the hands of the Dark Lord. My life tends this way now - it is no surprise to me if this war claims my life. I have always suspected it would. But what of the others? What of the students, the muggle-borns, the unborn children -” 

His companion again, said nothing, but pointed out the window of the shop, where a procession was following: two Death Eaters, a man and a woman, leading an assemblage of dirty and docile men and women, all shackled at the wrists. 

“Pure Blood!” shouted one of the leaders, “Pure Blood for purchase!” 

Snape did not understand; neither did Mundungus, as he came to stand by the invisible Snape at the window. “What’s this, then?” he asked Mr. Borgin. 

“You must not make it down here very much,” the shopkeeper regarded, not even looking up from writing his bill of sale. The chained assembly were marked with wood signs hanging from their necks, stating that they were either  _ Witless  _ or  _ Soulless _ , and each bore below it an arbitrary price, some ranging into the thousands of galleons. They were familiar faces, especially to Snape and Mundungus, and Snape noticed a number of his former students among them. Of the ones marked  _ Witless _ , some had vague expressions of dread, some had absurd, mad smiles, some were bereft with uncontrollable trembling and shaking their chains as they walked. The ones marked  _ Soulless _ were all the same vacant state; there was nothing at all behind their eyes, and they barely moved but for the pull of the chains binding their wrists and ankles. He could recall their names: Bones, Finnegan, Abbott, MacMillan… Snape spotted, with a knot in his stomach, at least three Weasleys among them: Percy Weasley, absent of his horn-rimmed glasses, marked  _ Soulless _ ; Ronald Weasley, one of the shakers, marked  _ Witless _ ; and Ginny Weasley, also marked  _ Witless _ , and fetching the highest price of any in the line. 

“The parade of Blood Traitors,” Mr. Borgin explained to the speechless Mundungus. “They come round twice a day.  _ Witless _ means they’ve been Longbottomed; probably by Madame Lestrange.  _ Soulless _ means they’ve been given the Kiss.” He finally looked up and noticed Mundungus staring, and said, “With what I’m about to pay you, you’ll be able to get one yourself, if you wanted. Maybe even that pretty little redhead, if you’re as good at haggling with them as you are with me.” 

Mundungus Fletcher looked harshly pale, sick to his stomach. “B-Buy them? What for?” 

Snape guessed the answer just before Mr. Borgin said it: “Why,  _ breeding _ , of course. With the rarity of pure blood these days, the Dark Lord can’t afford to just kill them, can he?” 

Mundungus put a hand over his mouth. Snape, beside him, had begun to shudder from head to foot. He wished them dead; they’d be better off dead. “Spirit,” he implored the phantom beside him, “if there is any person left in defiance of this hideous future, show them to me, I beseech you!” 

The dark figure drew close to him, spreading its dark robe around him like a wing; and upon withdrawing it, revealed a circular courtroom in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic. Hooded figures - Death Eaters and the formally-dressed members of the ministry’s Wizengamot - sat buzzing in fearful judgement in the stands surrounding the courtroom floor. Standing before the court was none other than Draco Malfoy, thinner and dirtier than Snape had ever seen him, with a trickle of dried blood running from one of his ears and down his neck. Snape noticed a grubby bandage around the boy’s left forearm, where his dark mark would be. He was flanked by his mother, Narcissa, who was dressed humbly and as haggard-looking as her son, with her bright brown eyes shining in fear and defiance up at the chief of the assembly. Behind them stood twenty or so witches and wizards, Snape noticed a mix of more students - Dean Thomas, Blaize Zabini, and the Greengrass sisters among them - a motley assembly of muggle-born to half- and pure-blood in status. Some were silently weeping, some shaking with resolute terror. All, including Draco and Narcissa, were bound at the wrists with shining, black rope, no doubt summoned by magic. 

The Chief Wizengamot raised a white hand, and all fell silent. “Let us begin,” said the high, soft, deadly voice of Lord Voldemort. 

Snape turned, looking upon the Dark Lord, sitting highest in the circular room. He was languid, quite at ease in this position of esteemed power, his left hand idly running a bony finger over the head of Nagini, who was larger than Snape had ever seen her, and who was wound around the base of the chair in enormous coils. At the Dark Lord’s right, his face bathed in shadow, stood a figure holding the Dark Lord’s yew and phoenix-feather wand. In his own hand, to Snape’s surprise, the Dark Lord held Dumbledore’s old wand - if Dumbledore was to be believed, the Elder Wand of ancient legend. 

So, he had finally found it. Snape supposed that it was inevitable. There were contingencies, of course - the idea that Dumbledore would hold the wand’s loyalty, even in death, because he had  _ chosen _ death at Snape’s hand, meaning that Snape - nor indeed, anyone at all - had not bested him for it. This, they both knew, would be read by the Dark Lord as the wand’s power having passed to Snape, so hearing of his own death in this dark future did not much surprise him. 

But there had been a tangle in the plan - Draco Malfoy had succeeded in disarming Dumbledore on the night of his death. And so, safely unbeknownst to anyone besides Snape and the now-dead Dumbledore, the wand’s loyalty had passed safely, for the time being, to young Draco. In his high manor, under service of the Dark Lord, he was in no immediate danger of being discovered. 

Yet here he was, before the Dark Lord as a traitor. Snape smelled danger, but had to remind himself that being a shadow, there was nothing at all which he could do about it. 

“Draco,” said the Dark Lord. “Narcissa. My faithful servants. But where,” he said, waving an idle hand at the crowd before him, “where is dear Lucius?” 

A voice spoke from the risers: “He is dead, My Lord.” 

“Dead,” he repeated. “Hm. Is this true, Draco?” 

The boy would not, or could not, look up at him. Snape, who was close to him, saw an ugly grimace manifest on the boy’s face as tears sprung to his eyes. Narcissa exhibited the smallest of changes, but kept her eyes bravely aloft, watching the Dark Lord and carefully darting around the room like a frightened animal, ready to dart at any moment. 

“You must be distraught,” he said. “I imagine it must be comparable to how I felt when learning last week that Malfoy Manor had gone up in flames. An accident, resulting in the loss of many prisoners and many more prized and loyal servants.” He let the silence permeate before going on, carefully watching his captive’s reactions. “Fiendfyre, I was told. Accidental. Hot and fast enough to make quick ashes of what was once a noble house and a loyal stronghold. When dear Bellatrix called for a ceremony,” he gestured to her, sitting to his left, “for her sister and her family, there was of course no remains left to send to your family’s tomb. 

“Imagine my surprise,” he went on, “when I received word that you’d been spotted boarding a muggle train heading for Folkstone.” 

He paused. Snape knew this was a chance for the boy to plead for mercy, which he foolishly did not take. 

“My informants tell me that the muggles have a railway that runs under the English Channel there. You’d have been detected if you left the country by the Floo Network, and you’d have been spotted travelling by broom or other means of flying. You set fiendfyre to the manor to fake your deaths and make sure no one was one was after you, and used muggle means to make your way out of the country. Now, tell me,” he said, leaning forward, “which of your captives fed you that clever idea?” 

“It was my idea,” managed Draco Malfoy, his voice dry like chalk. “I convinced my family and friends to flee, and imperiused our captives to act as human shields in case - in case -” 

“In the inevitability that you would be caught,” the Dark Lord supplied. “You are lying, Draco. Your father needn’t have died if they’d been acting as shields. Now, tell me the truth: which of your party persuaded you to betray me?” 

Draco, forgetting himself, looked pointedly away from the Dark Lord’s red-slit eyes. “I already told you, it was my -” 

The Dark Lord raised his right hand; the new servant of Lord Voldemort raised his wand. There was the hiss of a curse uttered in parseltongue, and Draco pealed over, screaming as the cruciatus hit him with full force. 

“No!” pleaded Narcissa, falling over her son’s writing body as if to shield him. “Stop!  _ Mercy! _ Bella, STOP HIM!” 

But in the stands, Narcissa’s heavy-lidded sister looked down at her nephew impassively. Some among Draco’s party screamed, some shouting over one another to confess their involvement, to try and save the boy. The Dark Lord gave another wave of his hand and his servant abated the curse, but Draco’s screams still echoed through the chamber. His mother knelt over him, trying to comfort his terrified sobs. 

“Well, Bellatrix?” the Dark Lord implored his faithful general. “Do you think my punishment of your family is unjust?” 

“Blood traitors are no family of mine, My Lord,” she said, but without her usual heretic fervor. 

As if to test her, he said, “I will give you the honors, if you wish to send them with the rest of the Witless to march among the parade of Blood Traitors.” 

“As my Lord wishes,” she said, after a pause. 

Narcissa sensed a weakness in her sister. “To what end, Bella?” she said, standing up, defiant. “How long with you stay his most faithful without being given the proper respect, the proper recognition?”

Bellatrix’s eyes flickered to her master, then back again. “Silence, traitor.” 

“How long will you let yourself be upstaged by lesser, weaker men? First Crouch Junior, who let himself be puppeted for _ a decade _ by his weak and ministry-loving father; then Snape, a double-crossing, Dumbledore-loving  _ coward _ -” 

“I said,  _ silence _ -”

“Now,  _ this _ ?” She pointed to the ominous, shadowed figure at the Dark Lord’s right hand. Her anger was bright and livid, nearly infectious. She was either mad, or spoke from the clarity of knowing which two terrible fates awaited her. “This - this  _ thing _ \- serving in the place that you’ve wanted for so long, the place you rightfully deserve - it’s an abomination. A disgrace beyond the placement of blood status. Will you stand idly to let yourself be replaced by an inferi, a zombie? It is a magic no more powerful than anyone else’s! It was only made because of your Dark Lord’s  _ foolish mistake _ -” 

Lord Voldemort had not raised his hand, but his servant whipped his wand arm; the curse uttered in parseltongue again, but there was no mistaking that harsh, green flash. In a second, Narcissa Malfoy had fallen to the cold marble of the chamber floor, her brown eyes open but empty. She was dead before she’d even hit the ground. 

Draco screamed - Snape thought he’d been hit with the cruciatus again, but he was slumped over his mother’s body, shaking her nonsensically, baying like a wounded dog. Bellatrix Lestrange, for once, was speechless as she looked down at her sister’s lifeless body. 

Snape had to turn away from the terrible scene. He had known Narcissa since his days at Hogwarts. He’d known Draco since the boy was born. He’d spent nearly seven years with the young men and women before them, now being culled like beasts under this maddening guise of justice. 

“Spirit,” he implored his companion. “I have already vowed myself to become a changed man. I will change in my own present time. I have vowed to forsake my ignorance, to know my place but know that I cannot remain passive. Is it not enough? Is there no hope for them, for any of them? For Harry Potter?” 

The spirit said nothing, but pointed to the grave and silent shadow beside the Dark Lord’s throne. 

The audience of the chamber quaked in fearful but suspicious silence. The Dark Lord’s slitted eyes traveled around the room, reading the faces of those in attendance. After Draco’s sobs had quieted, he spoke. 

“I detect that you all have concerns about my new companion,” he said. “Narcissa Malfoy has died because in her ignorance, she chose to commit further treason and try to discredit my power. I will grant the audience of this chamber an explanation of my new Right Hand, because your Lord is merciful. I would hate for anyone else to make the same mistake that will be the certain end of the Malfoy family line.

“Seventeen years ago, I commanded a force of intelligence to seek out the traitorous Potter family. In short work, our forces succeeded in finding them, even under the extenuating efforts of Albus Dumbledore to keep them hidden from me. In the act of killing the infant boy’s mudblood mother, she attempted to cast a charm of protection on her son. This, as you were all told, had led to my downfall. The Dark Lord’s ‘death.’” 

He said the last word with a mocking acridity. He paused, and allowed himself a slow and wicked smile. 

“What Lily Potter failed to realize, and what all mudbloods fail to realize, is that magic of the pureblood is  _ might _ . Our magic will always be stronger than theirs, because it is  _ inherent _ \- not watered down, not  _ stolen _ . 

“I had sought out the Potter family, not to destroy them, but because of a prophesied link between the Potter boy and myself. I imparted upon the child a gift that would strengthen the link between us, magical in nature. It was a gift that allowed him power and respect among his peers, an intuition for understanding the unknown, a penchant for escaping unfortunate circumstances unscathed, and a legendary prowess in magic. His mother’s charm interfered with, but did not prevent, that which I had  _ always _ intended to happen.” 

Snape looked around the chamber. How many in this room were capable of understanding these revisionist lies? None spoke up. No one ever dared doubt the Dark Lord. Perhaps all who knew the truth were now dead. 

“For many years, as I regained my strength and recollected our efforts, the boy evaded our capture. Albus Dumbledore and his army of the weak weaned him on altruistic tales to keep him from realizing his true potential, all while still exercising the gifts I’d bestowed upon him. When the boy was fourteen, my faithful servants assisted in capturing him, and he partially repaid his debt to me with his own blood, strengthening my body and fortifying the link between us. When our forces succeeded in killing Albus Dumbledore, events were set in motion that we would capture him alive, or that he would find his way to us. Many of you will recall my strict instruction that the boy always be taken  _ alive _ . 

“After one of his friends was found by snatchers while looking to find his way back to Potter and their mudblood friend, I put him under the imperius curse and sent him back on his own track. With the Taboo spell, it was all too easy to find him - Dumbledore had always foolishly encouraged the use of my name in vain. When Potter rejoined his friend, I persuaded him through Ronald Weasley that they needed to return urgently, secretly to Hogwarts. Their mudblood friend agreed, and they walked blindly into my trap.” 

Snape could envision it: Ronald Weasley, alone as he’d been, was already at risk to being captured. He could only count on his own luck for so long. After their scrape at Godric’s Hollow, if Voldemort knew that Harry had the locket, he’d surely know they were trying to find a way to destroy it. He’d send in the imperiused Ron to find them and persuade them to come to Hogwarts, preying on their sentimentality, and clever Granger would have agreed that Ron was onto something. It wouldn’t matter how they prepared themselves, or how they tried to escape. They’d never have made it. The boy, Snape thought, was surely dead. 

“When he was successfully captured, I forged the completed link between us by shelling away what was left of Potter using the killing curse. Many who witnessed the act misunderstood what happened as the boy surviving the killing curse a second time. Then, after months of molding and shaping and shilling away the damage that years of weakness under Dumbledore’s tutelage had left in him, I had molded the most perfect servant, one of infallible loyalty, perpetually incapable of betraying me. For, your see, he is not my servant at all.” He raised a white hand, beckoning the figure into the light. “That who was once Harry Potter now shares my flesh, blood, and soul. He is not my servant. He is  _ me _ .” 

The figure drew back his hood. There must have been many among the crowd who had not seen him before as harsh gasps and noises of horror rippled throughout. 

It was Harry Potter. His wild hair was as long as it must have been when he’d been captured; it looked dead now, matted and dirty.  His lightning-shaped scar had turned black, and where it forked it had started to spread like sickening veins under his now translucent and deathly-pale skin. He had no need for glasses, and his eyes had turned black, save for the green slits that were his pupils. Around his neck, he bore the tarnished locket of Salazar Slytherin, perfectly preserved, as if he’d never taken it off at all. 

“ _ No! _ ” Snape heard himself cry. He kept repeating the word, that it might turn back the shades of this terrible vision. It was a sickening violation of the boy’s body, worse than he ever could have imagined. From the crowd, he heard Dean Thomas call for Harry, pleading that there might be some part inside him that remembered they had once been friends. But from the terrible green of Potter’s eyes, the gauntness and snakelike transformation made upon his features, Snape knew: there was no part of the kind and shining soul of Harry Potter left there. 

“Severus Snape was killed because he, too, had opposed this forging, a bond made in magic that he did not understand.  _ The last enemy, _ ” he said, bastardizing the sentiment from the Potters’ own headstones, “ _ that shall be destroyed is Death _ . Look upon the mighty work of your Lord, and see my enemy slain.” 

So, after all this, Dumbledore had been right. Some piece of Voldemort had attached itself to Harry the night his parents were killed. Dumbledore had been scant on the details for protection from Voldemort, but Snape had done his research - he had suspected for some time now that he had made a horcrux. How many, he did not know. He was sure that the cursed ring that Dumbledore had found had been one. Perhaps the diary of Tom Riddle another. How many more could there have been? 

The Dark Lord had the Elder Wand; that he didn’t possess its full loyalty mattered not. They boy’s protection from his mother had been nullified when his blood had been used to restore Voldemort’s body. The wand was powerful enough to kill Harry Potter, but not so powerful that it would destroy the horcrux, a magically powerful aid to immortality, laying dormant inside him. 

The sliver of Voldemort’s soul had made efficient use of the husk it now sat in. He imagined the Dark Lord’s fear and hatred at the boy seeming to survive the curse again. What had stopped him trying to kill it once more? Perhaps it had spoken to him in parseltongue, a language only he could understand. Perhaps the Dark Lord had felt a kinship in a piece of himself, and stayed his hand. Perhaps he  _ had  _ tried to kill it - but if Dumbledore’s encounter with the ring was any indication, horcruxes were volatile in their magic and could put up deadly defenses for self preservation. Whatever had happened, two pieces of Voldemort’s soul had been delivered safely to his clutches. The Husk wielded the yew wand because the Dark Lord had been right - all that was left of Harry Potter  _ was _ part of Lord Voldemort, now. They were masters one in the same. 

Snape knew that the only reason he would be killed by the Dark Lord would have been the tracing of his association with Dumbledore’s elder wand. Even in the future where he himself had been killed to try and covet the wand’s power, Voldemort still didn’t have it. Perchance there was a sliver yet of hope - two of the seven pieces had been destroyed. Without the full might of the Elder Wand, perhaps there was someone, somewhere… 

Yet here was Draco Malfoy, the holder of the wand’s power, captive in front of him. The Dark Lord stared down at the boy, who still huddled over the body of his mother with his wrists bound. 

“Draco,” he said, “your mother did not submit herself to my mercy. I have given you many chances to ask for it. Therefore I see no reason why you, nor any of your friends, deserve an end any different to hers.” 

The horcrux-Harry raised the yew wand. In the same harsh rattle and green flash of the curse that killed his mother, Draco Malfoy lay dead. The Husk raised his wand to deliver another, to kill each of the twenty one by one, but the Dark Lord halted him. 

Lord Voldemort was looking at the Elder Wand. He held it up to examine for some change that he must have felt - a tremendous power flowing through him, a certainty that the universe was his to command, that the impossible meant nothing. He looked down at Draco’s body, understanding it all, and began to laugh. 

Those on trial had been sobbing, or screaming, or fruitlessly pleading for their lives, but their agony was severed at once when Voldemort whipped his wand through the air. With a crack like thunder, the bodies collapsed as one, terror frozen on their faces as they were, all of them, felled by his single curse. 

Snape had lost himself. He was the only one left pleading for their lost lives; a scream that no one could hear. He grabbed the spirit by the front of its robes. 

“ _ I have vowed a change! _ ” he cried. “ _ Take me from this place! Let it not be so! Let me make amends! I have renewed my pledge to live and die for Harry Potter, and all those at my school! _ ” 

He could feel the immense cold rake over his body; he could hear Voldemort’s high and triumphant laugh. Still the spirit said nothing. Snape collapsed to his knees, dragging the spirit’s robes with him that its hood fell off. Pale, rotting skin stretched over blank eye sockets; there was only a grotesque hole where its mouth should be. Snape instinctively drew back, but the phantom had him gripped by the throat with its spider-like hands as it drew tenderly closer. He tried to scramble for his wand, tried to think of anything, of the boy he’d pledged his life to, of the young man who’d saved his life once, of the red-haired girl whose mother used to buy him socks. But they seemed like vague characters in another life, their memory as insubstantial as shadow. 

The last thing he heard, before collapsing on the marble with the rest of them, was the rattle of death, beating on gentle wings toward him. 


	5. Stave Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape returns to his own time with a new perspective on his role in the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. Thanks for sticking with me on a fic that took me far, far too long to finish. It feels good to put it out there - a perfect Christmas present for myself. 
> 
> If you've read this far, I hope you've enjoyed it. Happy Holidays to all!

The bed was his own, his robes were his own, and the rattling came from his own chattering teeth. He was awake, and his time was his own for him to make amends - to make good on his word. 

He had never even gone under his bedclothes - the bed was made under him, and he still wore yesterday’s robes. The cold was a cheery welcome of the bruised-peach morning that was rising outside the tower. Snape swung his legs over his bed and briskly passed through the open door from his living quarters to his office. The window, despite Snape remembering having closed it, was open. 

He shut it with a bang that woke all the headmaster’s portraits, except one. 

“Dumbledore,” he said, and the snoozing old man fluttered awake. 

“Severus,” he said calmly, and stifled a great yawn. “Are we on speaking terms once more?” 

“Do I appear a changed man?” 

“I suppose it’s difficult to say,” he said, appraising him from his high portrait. 

“You asked me once -  _ After all this time? _ you said. Do you remember?” 

Dumbledore nodded. “And you replied -” 

“ _ Always _ ,” Snape finished for him. “And that will never change. But  _ Always _ has kept me in the past. It is time that I live - and possibly die - for the past, the present, and the future.” 

The old man smiled. “Then I believe you have changed. But what will you do?” 

Snape paced the office, collecting his thoughts. He was gracious that all he had seen in the company of the spirits had not left him. And yet somehow, his memories felt like something he’d imagined. When he put a wand to his temple and tried to extract them for the pensieve, he found they would not draw for him. Fantasies could never be drawn for the pensieve, so they must be safe from the Dark Lord’s legilimency. His night with the spirits was safe with him alone. The Dark Lord could never delve into what he’d seen and use it to his advantage. 

The first thing Snape did was find his quill, and a long stretch of parchment, to begin a letter. 

_ To Mr. H. Potter, or any of his friends or beneficiaries, in the event of the death of Severus Snape _ , he began it. And from there, he told his tale from the beginning: his life in Spinner’s End, his mother and father, his discovery of his magic, his scouting of Lily and her sister. He detailed the most treasured parts of his friendship with Lily. He documented, with some embarrassment, even after all these years, how he had grown to like her as something more than friendship. He did not spare what he’d said and the things he’d done to drive her away from him. He explained what had led him to his interest in the dark arts, and didn’t make excuses for himself. Then, for the boy’s benefit, he explained what James had been like: how he was charismatic, clever, dashing, and a relentless troublemaker. From all he’d seen from the spirits, thinking about James Potter no longer provoked the hateful reaction it once had for him. His heart raced with affection as he recalled the day that James had saved his life -  _ him _ , Severus Snape, a notoriously hated bully. He wrote that of the kind and compassionate qualities in Harry himself, Snape had always assumed they had carried over from his mother, but he had been wrong. He could see that, now. He was more than physically the image of his father, and it was nothing to ever be ashamed of. 

Snape wrote of his departure from school, his time among the Death Eaters, the terrible things he’d once done and enabled for a fascist rule over people he thought lesser than himself. He chronicled his discovery of Sybill Trelawney’s prophecy, the Dark Lord’s interpretation of it, his turn on the Death Eaters, his pledge to Dumbledore. He did it, he wrote, all for her. For Lily. 

_ But I have changed _ , he wrote on. Here, he had to be purposely vague. If the boy or anyone else knew of his visions, they might think him mad, his words insincere. He reflected on what he’d seen, recalling the bright spots he’d seen from his past, little of what he would know from the present, and what he might speculate about the future. 

He would leave it there for now. That he might hand it to the boy in person - the thought made him feel lighter, despite the small chances of it happening. He tucked the scroll away among his desk and vowed to finish it later. In the meantime, there was much to do. 

The next thing he did was send a summons to Professor McGonagall, a notice to Hagrid, and another summons to Mr. Filch. 

Professor McGonagall delivered the students, per his summons, to his office later that morning. Still in the clothes they had worn the night before, they walked stiff and silent but eyeing one another carefully, no doubt checking any of them had been harmed during the night. After all he’d seen in his visions of the future, Snape was quite glad to see Ginny Weasley with color in her cheeks, her brown eyes not vacant and unfocused but as bright and defiant as ever. 

Professor McGonagall planted herself by the door. Snape supposed there was no harm in her staying. 

“You will see that the sword of Gryffindor has been returned to its case,” he gestured to it,. “But it will not remain there for long. You tried to steal it because you believed it would help Harry Potter, but  _ how _ , I cannot imagine. And I have a suspicion that none of you know how it would help him, either. A very risky plan for someone you don’t even have contact with.” 

“How do you know we don’t have contact with him?” said Ginny Weasley. 

“By the simple fact that you’re all still  _ here _ ,” he said. He had to discourage them, to belittle their morale. It shouldn’t have been hard - he’d had plenty of practice over the years, after all. “Tell me, did Potter show some semblance of leadership for once and order you back to Hogwarts at start of term? Or did he simply disappear, and you had no other choice but to return and play the hero without him?” 

They  _ hated _ him. By the looks on their faces, there was no doubt about that. The fact did not warm Snape’s heart, but it did set him at ease. He was free from their suspicion, at least for now. Professor McGonagall looked as though she did not care for his talk - she was only here see that his punishment was not overly cruel. 

“For the crime of breaking into my office,” he said, “and attempting to steal a powerful magical artifact, the three of you will accompany Hagrid into the Forbidden Forest. You will assist Hagrid with his groundskeeping duties, and you will also collect and replenish my stock of potions ingredients from this list, here.” He indicated a small scroll of parchment that he’d written up while waiting for them. “As headmaster, my increased responsibilities have deprived me of the …  _ luxury _ of collecting frost morels and bowtruckle bark myself.” 

Ginny and Neville looked as though they could hardly believe their luck, but Luna was skeptical and waited for the catch. 

“You will remain in the forest,” Snape said, granting her suspicions, “until the end of the winter holiday. You will camp without the use of magic, and your wands will not be allowed back to you until you return.” 

At last, their faces fell. It was punishment harsh enough to keep the Carrows well and satisfied, but simultaneously keep the children safe from the duo’s cruel whims. Snape knew and expected that Hagrid (and possibly Professor McGonagall) would surely help them out. And though it would keep them away from their little army tucked up the Come-and-Go Room for the duration of winter break, it would also give them the necessary tools for survival should they find themselves needing to escape and seek refuge in nature. They did not know it, but they would be tasting the current trials of Potter, Granger, and Weasley. 

He informed them that their punishment would commence tonight at nine o’clock, but that he saw no reason why they should not be able to join the Christmas feast down in the Great Hall, so long as Professor McGonagall agreed to supervise them. He warned them that if they left her side or caused any more trouble that he would hand their supplemental punishing privileges over to the Carrows. He also noted that because of their running of outlawed propaganda into the school, their Hogsmeade privileges were henceforth revoked. 

“Will you be joining us for the feast, headmaster?” asked Professor McGonagall, as they were taking their leave. 

“I will be away from the castle on business this evening,” he said.

“It’s customary for the headmaster to make some sort of speech,” she said reproachfully. 

“Then I defer the responsibilities to you, Minerva,” he said, “if you will take them. The students may consider it a gift if they are spared my dull speech and instead treated with something of yours.” 

By her bemused smile, he had worried he had overstepped his bounds on kindness. “For  _ Christmas _ , Minerva,” he added sternly, and bade them leave, glad that his first task as over with. 

When Mr. Filch reached his office, huffing and puffing and with Mrs. Norris hot on his heels, Snape said he’d heard that Mr. Filch had been concentrating efforts on searching around the kitchens trying to catch where the DA was scrounging food from. 

“I want you to direct your efforts  _ outside _ the castle,” he told the miserly old man, and it was an easy lie, partially rooted in truth from what he’d heard in their base. “I have reason to believe that the army may have discovered a new secret passage somewhere, and are getting food and paraphernalia from Hogsmeade instead.” 

Mr. Filch protested a while, but Snape was headmaster, and his orders were orders. When he had gone, Snape made his way down to the kitchens himself and asked the elves, if it wasn’t too late, to make extra for tonight’s feast. They were delighted to do so, after their initial shock upon seeing the new headmaster had subsided. He ordered them not to send the extra portions up, however, but to instead give food freely to any students who came round to the kitchens asking for it. 

There was some confusion at that; they had been given conflicting orders from Filch and the Carrows both, which was why Christmas Eve and every meal before had the students settling for scraps. He found himself wishing that Dobby, the elf from his visions, were here to help. He had seemed easier to talk to, easier to convey his intentions to. 

“Amycus, Alecto, and Mr. Filch are not your masters,” he told them. “You may pretend that they are, when they are in your company, but I am headmaster of this castle. If they try and harm you, you are permitted to use magic to defend yourselves. If this ever happens, I want you to report the instance directly to me.” Snape felt sorry for the creatures, that they had to be told they were allowed to defend themselves. “You are all doing very good work,” he told them. He wished that he could give them something to show his appreciation, but they were all itching to get back to work and tend to the enormous pots and pans and ovens that they had going for the feast tonight, so he left them to it. 

He then returned to his office. At Dumbledore’s instruction, he spent much of the morning and afternoon lording over his desk to create what was necessary for their plans to succeed. When he was ready, he grabbed a few items and his travelling cloak, then threw a handful of floo powder on the empty hearth, and spun himself to Malfoy Manor. 

He had never given the family notice on calling on their house before, and knew he did not need to now. Nonetheless, he hoped that the roaring lapping of green flames would give them notice to prepare for them. 

“Oh, it’s  _ you _ ,” said Bellatrix Lestrange, as Snape stumbled forward out of the enormous white-marble fireplace. 

“Who is it, Bella?” 

“The  _ headmaster, _ ” she called down the corridor, and Narcissa hurried in. 

“Severus? What service brings you here today?” she said, using her wand to kindly brush the ash from his robes and bag. Her smile was more worry than warmth. 

“Business matters, I’m afraid,” he said, watching Bellatrix retreat moodily out of the room. When he was sure she’d gone, he withdrew the black box from within his satchel. 

He had not meant to terrify her by this. A white hand cupped her mouth; he supposed she was running through all the possibilities that his refusal of the gift could mean. 

“Do not look so startled,” he told her. “I bring these back because I cannot accept them. They were made to sit among the finery in a well-bred manor such as yours, not on a dusty shelf in the headmaster’s office alongside other useless curios. Please, take them.” 

Put that way, she could not refuse. She bowed her head and graciously accepted the returned gift, the silver goblets that had been in their family for generations. “Will you be our guest for dinner, Severus?” 

He agreed to that. Narcissa summoned the elves to bring them wine from the cellar, and they sat by the fireside as she told him about the prisoners they’d captured the night before. Snape had to pretend that he hadn’t known a word about Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell getting killed while apprehended by snatchers, or about the Gringott’s goblin, or about the surprising parentage of one Dean Thomas. 

“You’ve always had a keen perception into such matters,” he told her, and she thanked him. Draco joined them in the hall, and Snape noticed that his graciousness toward him seemed at least partially genuine. He inquired if the boy was missing his studies at Hogwarts, to which he replied, “I’m learning as much out here as I would be in there,” and Snape could not tell if it was a jab at him or not. 

Finally, Lucius found his way into the sitting room as well, meekly addressing Snape as he did. 

“Narcissa here was telling me that she narrowly saved the life of the only heir of a prominent pureblood family,” said Snape. “I wonder if I was too hasty in turning you away from my office last night, Lucius. I will see about getting you some additional security detail regarding the prisoners kept here. I’m certain that Pettigrew can be spared for such duties.” He knew that would make them happy, to feel like they weren’t at the very bottom of the food chain any more. “And Lucius, I know that wandmakers are in short supply these days, but I will speak to the Dark Lord about getting you a new wand as well.” 

“Oh,  _ thank _ you Severus, thank you…” 

Grovelling was awkward and unbecoming for Lucius Malfoy, but the thanks on Narcissa’s face was enough for him. It was another assurance for the protection of her family. 

“Incidentally, where is Bellatrix? I have something for her, as well.” 

They found her down in the dungeons, pacing moodily as their servants passed the prisoners bread and water. The Malfoys left him to deal with her alone. 

“Bellatrix, I have a favor to ask you - on behalf of the Dark Lord.” 

The snide presumption on her face vanished and replaced itself with an almost naive eagerness. “What is it?” 

He brought no pretense with him, and pulled from his bag the sword of Gryffindor, and its silver dazzled in the dark corridor. Bellatrix’s eyes widened. 

“I caught a handful of students trying to steal this from my office,” he explained. “When I interrogated them, I found out they had taken it because they believed it would aid Potter in some way. A fool’s errand - even if they had escaped out the door with it, they wouldn’t have known where to send the thing.

“Regardless, I would feel more comfortable if the artifact were removed from my office. The Dark Lord entrusts many of his treasures to your vaults; I have heard him speak highly of their security, and I was wondering if you might add this one more priceless treasure among them.” 

She was still willing, but suspicious. He held out the sword to her in both hands, and she took it. 

Then, she turned to the cell nearest to them. “You! Goblin! Come here a moment.” 

The creature, which Snape had not noticed, had been eying them from the dark corner of his dirty cell. At Bellatrix’s summons, he sauntered over to the bars, his beady eyes on the enormous silver sword. 

“This sword,” she said. “Do you know it?” 

He squinted, and held out his hands through the bars. “I might, if my lady would allow me to examine more closely -” 

Bellatrix whipped out her wand. The goblin withdrew, flinching. “Nice try,” said Bellatrix. “Tell me, or I’ll make you squeal.” 

The creature grimaced. Snape felt his heart pounding; the replica would fool any human examining the sword by sight and sense alone - but a goblin would surely be able to tell the difference in a second. 

“Men call it the Sword of Gryffindor,” he said. “We goblins have a different name for it.” 

“It’s really it, then? The sword of Gryffindor? Centuries old, and wielded by the fabled founder himself?”

The goblin nodded. 

“And what is it worth?” 

“ _ Worth _ ?” he sneered. “It is a goblin-made, powerfully magical artifact. It is  _ priceless _ .” 

The bluff had surprised Snape initially, but the goblin must have wanted revenge for Bellatrix’s treatment of him. The creature eyed him and, to further sell his fabrication, asked where he could have gotten such a thing. 

“That is no concern of yours,” Snape replied. He had to act oblivious to the truth as well. No doubt the creature thought less of him for holding such high stock in the fake sword he’d made that morning at Dumbledore’s instruction. 

“Will you take it?” Snape asked Bellatrix. 

She nodded, considering the treasure in her hands before her. It was among the kindest of interactions he could have asked for from her. 

Christmas dinner was, of course, delicious. Conversation was carried by Narcissa, ever the attentive hostess, and consisted of comparing this year’s holiday to that of ones that had passed. 

“I do remember you showing off your new engagement ring at Slughorn’s Christmas party in our sixth year,” said Snape, recalling what the first spirit had showed him. 

“You remember that?” she laughed. “That was so long ago, I’d forgotten. I don’t suppose girls in your class do anything like that, do they, Draco?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“But then, the stock of purebloods has gone way down,” she went on. “Not to say we haven’t received offers from several families with daughters around Draco’s age, some international. I do wonder if sixteen is too young to think of such things. Of course, the choice all belongs to my boy.” She reached over and tenderly smoothed her son’s white-blonde hair back from his face, and he gave her a small smile. 

It was long past dark when Snape returned to the castle. The Floo Network was blocked for anyone entering Hogwarts, so he apparated into Hogsmeade, knowing that doing so would set off the caterwauling charm that the Death Eaters had placed there. 

Wands surrounded him from three sides, but lowered when they realized who it was. 

“It’s the headmaster,” one of them said, hiding his sneer. “What brings you down to our neck of the woods,  _ sir _ ?” 

“Quality control,” he said, and they silenced the charm. “I am testing to see how effective this post is. I’m surprised at the response. You’ve done well.” 

They were all so stunned by his compliment that he swept up the road to Hogwarts without another word. 

Instead of approaching the castle, however, he veered left toward the dark and imposing wall of the Forbidden Forest, rendering himself camouflaged with a disillusionment charm. It was just after nine o’clock in the evening. He skirted around Hagrid’s hut and found footsteps in the snow leading into the forest, and after walking for five minutes, he came across some voices.

“... put the stakes in the ground here, yeh’ll need the hammer, and I’ve already told yeh, you’ll make a fire later…”

Snape moved through the trees until he saw orange glow of lantern light spilling on Hagrid, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbotton, and Ginny Weasley. They were struggling with putting up a muggle tent in a clearing in the woods. 

“At least this work warms us up,” said Luna, to the chagrin of her companions. 

“I know I shouldn’t complain,” said Ginny. “We’ve got off easy, considering. But,  _ really _ ? How are we expected to survive out here like this?” 

“The same way I have since they took my wand when I was thirteen,” said Hagrid. “Now, you’re not gonna be alone; I’ll kip out here with yeh to make sure nothin’ tries to make a meal of you.”

“I think camping without magic is a very useful skill,” said Luna. “Thank you, Hagrid.” 

Neville sighed. “I’m sure it is useful, but she’s only saying that because she’s planning on leaving.” 

“Eh? Leaving, what for?” 

“I’m worried for my father,” said Luna. “He’s sent me some concerning letters and is talking about disassembling  _ The Quibbler _ . I stayed because we tried to get the sword, but now I need to see if he’s okay. If he is, I’ll use what I’ve learned here and make my way back to Mr. Aberforth’s place.” 

They spent another half hour setting up the tent, which would comfortably fit the three of them. 

“But where are you sleeping, Hagrid?” 

“Here,” he said, gesturing to the standing tent. “Er, I forgot to show you. This is from Professor McGonagall.  _ Merry Christmas _ , she says. Only… I wasn’t supposed to tell you it was from her, so forget I said that.” 

He reached for another tent bag among his pile of belongings. Glancing at the tired students, he muttered, “Ah, ter hell with it,” and used his pink umbrella to will the tent into setting up itself. It was smaller in size than its companion, but when the students ventured inside it, Snape could tell it was a wizard’s tent, magically enhanced to be much larger and cozier on the inside. 

He left at that, making his way back to the castle just as snow began to fall. He worried idly for Harry Potter, wherever he was. He worried for Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, who had bravely tied themselves up with Potter in this incomprehensibly difficult time. He worried for all those whom he had seen in his visions, dreading what the future would hold for them. He worried that he would not have enough time. 

“Any word?” he asked the portrait of Phineas Nigellus upon his return. 

The man heaved a sigh. “There’s been a lot of word about Dumbledore,” he said, looking pointedly at his companion’s portrait. “Torrid secrets about your past. I think they got their hands on that dreadful Skeeter woman’s new book.” 

“And Weasley, he’s found his way back to them?” 

“I didn’t hear him. With as short as they’re being to one another, I’d guess not.” 

“The put-outer will guide him,” Dumbledore assured Snape, but this did nothing to ease his agitation. His future vision had hinged on Ron Weasley having been captured and imperiused by Voldemort. He could not hesitate in making sure the boy was delivered safely to his friends in hiding. 

“Keep listening,” he said to Phineas Nigellus. 

He would have to finish his letter to Harry Potter another day, when he could keep his thoughts together. The last thing that Snape did before retiring to his chambers was retrieve the ancient Hogwarts Registry book from its shelf in his office. It held the names and addresses of all past and future students who had been put down for acceptance to the school. When muggle-borns exhibited signs of magic, their names magically appeared in green ink on the pages. Other names of pure- and halfblood students were written in black when the school received word of their birth from their families. 

He flipped through, finding the year of 2009, which he was certain he would not live long enough to see. Already, a few names had populated in green ink, and it warmed his heart to think of a future where such children were still allowed at this school. He dipped his quill and wrote the name  _ Edward or Hope Lupin _ in black ink on a new line. It felt strange, he thought as he willed himself to bed, to harbor such concern for a child he would almost certainly never meet. Strange, but good. 

Three anxious days later, in the dark of the early morning, Snape awoke to shouting coming from his study. For a moment, he dreaded that it could have been another spirit, but it was only Phineas Nigellus. 

“Headmaster!” he called, and Snape hurried in. “They are camping in the Forest of Dean. The mudblood -” 

“Do not use that word!” Snape said, the chastisement even a little surprising to himself. 

“- the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!” 

“Good,” said Dumbledore from his portrait. “Very good! Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valor - and he must not know that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s mind and see you acting for him -” 

“I know,” said Snape, taking the real sword from the hiding place he’d created behind Dumbledore’s portrait. “And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so important to give Potter the sword?” 

It was a test - perhaps they were now both changed men. 

“No, I don’t think so,” the old wizard said. “He will know what to do with it. And Severus, be very careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance after George Weasley’s mishap…”

Dumbledore’s portrait was, just that: a portrait. It had not the ability to change his ways, nor had it the hindsight that was afforded to the ghastly spirit of Dumbledore that had visited him in his office on Christmas Eve. He had suspected the sword’s purpose, anyway, but wished to see if there was any difference made aside from his own. It was then that he understood: the phantom had come from a place of hindsight, and been sincere in willing him to change. 

“Don’t worry, Dumbledore. I have a plan.” 

He concealed the sword beneath his robes and apparated under a disillusionment charm out of Hogsmeade to the Forest of Dean. 

“Who’s there?” came a voice, very much nearer than Snape would have liked. He caught sight of the boy for just a moment before making sure he was hidden safely behind a thicket of trees. Snape had apparated into a creek bed; Ron Weasley had been camped out under a tree on the neighboring ridge, probably nodding off by the sudden jerking up of his head. 

“Harry?” he called. “Hermione?” 

Snape had readied his wand in anticipation of having to shield himself from  _ Hominem revelio _ , but the boy did not use it. He’d been used to being chased by snatchers, who did not often stalk their prey, but chased after them in tumultuous and dangerous battles. 

The boy’s presence assured Snape that Phineas Nigellus had been right about the location of Potter and Granger. It did worry him that Ron hadn’t been able to find them on his own, but then again, that meant whatever means that Potter and Granger were using to remain hidden must have been working. Snape would be able to kill two birds with one spell by reuniting Potter with both the sword and, more importantly, his best friend. 

When he was sure it was safe, he began to move through the forest, magically muffling his movements as he went.  _ Conditions of need and valor, _ Snape recalled Dumbledore saying - another of his harebrained schemes to play absolutely safe in making sure that no one knew Snape’s triple-agent status, and to ensure if they were caught that everyone believed that the sword would reach Potter by no means other than some kind of divine magical providence. 

He followed the scant creek bed to where it fed into a pond, deep enough that one would have to submerge themselves completely to skim the bottom. He thought back to the Arthurian legends his mother had read to him as a boy, and supposed that a sword being rescued from a pond would do in a pinch for a blessing of need and valor. Snape used magic to vanish the thin sheet of ice, then levitated it down gently into the water until it settled along the silty bottom. He then froze the surface again, the ice like a ghostly mirror looking down upon the shining sword. 

He retreated a safe distance, staying as quiet as he could and vanishing his footsteps in the snow along the way. He climbed the opposite ridge of the creek bed so that he could see everything from above, and prepared himself. 

Snape would need to cast a patronus. He had rare need for them, and usually chose to summon older, happier memories of Lily when he did so, even if it took him several tries in order to purge himself of the unpleasant ones associated with her. This time, however, he allowed himself to think of all that the spirits had showed him: the foggy gleams of his past, the happy candles of the present, the oppressive dark of the future. And Harry Potter, he was the key to all of that. He and his friends were the unwitting heroes of a brighter future that had not yet been written.  _ Is it not comforting, in a way, to know that there is still some mystery left in the world? _

That Harry Potter was alive at all was enough for him to summon his first patronus.  _ Find him, _ he instructed the silvery-white doe, who blinked innocently at him.  _ Lead Harry Potter to this pond, for need and valor. _ For the second, Snape thought of the the boys and girls, the good men and women who had pledged their lives for this war, who had fastened their loyalty, courage, wit, and cunning to the boy’s mission, and how he himself could be counted among them. The spirits had made him understand: no act of kindness is too small, no betterment of one’s self comes too late to be useful. 

_ Find Ronald Weasley _ , he instructed the second.  _ Lead him to this pond as well, that he might understand his own importance. _ And the doe stepped silently off down the creek bed. 

Snape hid himself well and waited in the dark of the forest, he did not know how long, before he heard the very faint whisper of footsteps on snow. 

It was Harry Potter. Alive, in the flesh, no polyjuice. And he was alone. Snape supposed he and Granger were trading watch shifts - clever of them. Snape praised his luck that it was working, that he was not too late. He was following the doe through the wood, where she stopped by the pool and looked back at him before vanishing. Harry lit his wand, searching the forest around him, clearly suspecting some kind of trap, but none came. At last, he noticed the sword. He stared at it, then searched his surroundings again, but Snape knew he was safe from being spotted. 

“ _ Accio sword _ ,” he heard the boy murmur. He began to pace around the pond, thinking.  _ Come on, Potter _ , Snape encouraged him silently.  _ You know what you have to do. _

He figured it out, stopping as he did. It was not an inviting prospect, being this cold out. Harry Potter removed his layers until he was down to his underwear, shivering and preparing himself for the plunge. “ _ Diffindo! _ ” He said, and the ice split and broke with a loud crack that broke the silence of the forest. Far down the ravine, from the direction he had come, Snape could see the second doe leading Ron Weasley toward the pond as well. He was sure he’d heard the crack, as he had his wand drawn and was moving low among the brush, cautiously tailing the doe and trying to check out what was ahead. 

Potter was about to jump. Snape spotted it just before he had: the locket, tarnished gold and glittering with emeralds, still around his neck. 

Snape stood up, suddenly alert and worried. If the thing understood that Harry was diving after something he would use to destroy it - 

Ron was still far off. He heard the splash, and Snape saw Potter bobbing, up to his neck and treading water. The boy took a harsh couple breaths, then dove. 

Snape waved his wand, willing the doe to bring him faster, and she looked back at Ron before breaking into a run. As he had hoped he would, Ron started to sprint after her, best he could over the fallen logs and snow. 

The glimmer of the sword rippled and disappeared - Potter had it. But as soon as he had, Snape could tell something was wrong. The water roiled; he was thrashing, trying to make his way back to the surface. His body was unnaturally smashed to the rocky side of the pool where he’d jumped in. 

Ron came upon the scene at last, his doe disappearing. He spotted Granger’s lit wand lying on the ground. 

“Hermione?” he called, and realized the pile of clothes - the lessened thrashing in the pool before him - Snape wanted to run, to scream a warning, anything - 

“HARRY!” Ron yelled, throwing down his bag and wand with one vigorous movement; he had barely thrown his jacket off before jumping fully clothed in the pool, hitting bottom with a plunging splash and angling himself under his friend. Snape held his breath as the water splashed about; Ron was grabbing at Harry, trying to get a hold on something around him. He must have pushed off hard from the bottom, for a second later Harry Potter seemed to leap out of the pool as he was thrown on the snowy banks, the locket freed from his neck. Ron threw himself out on the rising bank, gasping, holding both the sword and the locket, the dreadful cold surely egging him to keep moving. Potter choked out the water he’d swallowed from being held under, and Ron coughed as well, standing fast to see if his friend was alright. 

Snape allowed himself a breath that he had been holding for what had felt like an eternity. “Are you  _ mental _ ?” he heard Ron chastise Harry. “Why  _ hell _ didn’t you take this thing off before you dived?” 

Harry had reached for his clothes and started to pull them on, but his joy at seeing his friend was plain on his face. “It was you?” he asked weakly. “You cast that doe?” 

“What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing it!” 

Snape gathered himself, preparing to leave. The boys covered their tracks to what led them there, and Snape listened hard at a sudden and terrible pause in their conversation. 

“I did think I saw something move over there,” he barely heard Ron say. “But I was running to the pool at the time -” 

Snape knew that Potter was headed his way before he’d even started moving. Thinking quickly, he seized his things and cast a silencing spell in a circle around him and, making sure he was still hidden behind the two oak trees, twisted and vanished on the spot. 

He reappeared with a  _ pop _ on the opposite ridge, still disillusioned, and the noise of his apparition covered by Harry’s clamoring through the snow toward the tree where he’d been only seconds ago. He stayed still, shrouded among a grove of birch trees, hoping that their black eyes would better camouflage his own. He saw Harry circle the oaks, then head down to Ron. 

Snape was farther away now, and could not hear their conversation. They seemed to be working through the idea of who could have left the sword, and the state of the locket. Harry thought for a moment, then strode off with purpose in Snape’s direction yet again. 

He prepared himself to bolt, but Potter stopped to sweep the snow off a flat stone and Snape heard him say, “No, you should do it.” 

“Me?” said Ron, his voice rising. “Why?” 

Harry went through the motions of placing the locket on the stone, but Ron protested, they argued. As Ron explained that wearing the locket had induced the greatest negative effect on him alone, Snape began to see why Potter was so eager in having him destroy it. There was an incalculable, unpredictable magic when combined with certain kinds of acts; Harry being alive today from Lily’s magic was proof of that. 

“You can do it,” Snape heard Harry say. “You can! You’ve just got the sword, I know it’s supposed to be you who uses it. Please, just get rid of it, Ron.” 

They agreed to the count of three, and chills raked Snape’s flesh as he heard the parseltongue slip from Harry’s mouth, knowing the real reason why he could speak it at all.

But that horror was nothing compared to what emerged from the locket - he could not see from such a distance, but Ron, sword in hand, was transfixed by the open windows of the locket, which began to speak. 

“ _ I have seen your heart, and it is mine. I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, I have seen your fears. All that you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible… _ ” 

Harry urged his friend to stab it, but Ron was listening to the voice, shaken terribly. The locket kept speaking to him, impossibly loud over Harry’s attempts to reach him. 

Something harsh and terrible bloomed from the locket, and it took Snape a moment to place the figures as grotesque, cruel imaginings of Potter and Granger, who were laughing at Ron, taunting him. They spoke in a terrifying unison, telling the boy that he was nothing compared to The Chosen One, that his mother would have preferred a daughter, but when the two figures entwined and shared a writhing embrace, that seemed to snap Ron back to present. He raised the sword and brought it down with a cry that mingled with the horcrux’s shrieks of anguish and echoed into the forest. 

It was done. Harry collected the shards of the locket as his friend fell to his knees. They murmured more in explanations and apologies that he could not hear, and when Snape saw the two friends reach for one another and hug, he knew at long last that his work was done. He had seen it through to the very end that Ron had found his way, that their bond was restored. 

He waited, watching them walk alongside one another with renewed energy until they were out of sight. Snape had once been in love with a muggle-born girl whom he’d let down terribly, and Ron was now in the same boat. If only, he thought, he could give the boy advice from hindsight:  _ admit you were wrong, and do right by her. It’s never too late to change your mind.  _

Thinking of the letter he still needed to finish, he disapparated back to Hogsmeade again, stopping the caterwauling charm on his own accord and making his way up to the castle. He relayed the information to Dumbledore, who was cautiously pleased. 

“They are not out of the woods yet, Severus,” Dumbledore warned him. “Indeed, they have a long way to go. But this is an enormous step. You’ve done very well.” 

The man’s praise mattered little to Snape; it always had. He felt better knowing that the likelihood of the outcome he had seen in the future was dwindling less with each action he took. “Keep listening,” he advised Phineas, but knew that he would have little chance from then on to intervene in such massive methods. He would do what he could. Snape sat down to write the end of his letter to Harry Potter, writing the idea that had sprouted tenderly in his heart earlier that very day: 

 

_ I hope with all of my hardened heart that this letter finds you alive. _

_ If I could take your place, I would. Again, again, again. I’d die a thousand deaths to know that the son of Lily and James wouldn’t meet this fate, but all I have ruminated on has shown me that your life leads a singular, tragic direction. I will pray that it is not so. And I will pledge the life I have to help you, to protect you the way I should have been since I first switched sides. I let my heart ruminate in hatred for the better part of my life, but I understand now that hatred is a choice. And it is the wrong one.  _

_ Let it be known, Harry James Potter, that every soul that met yours has been made better by it. Even, and especially, mine. Perhaps even Tom Riddle’s.  _

 

He signed off with his farewell, and looked over it for a long time. 

The seldom-experienced joy had now settled in his heart; he was meeting with the Dark Lord tomorrow and would need to stow it away in his mind. He meditated on wearing down his idle thoughts and frets down until they had rinsed away, imagining his mind and consciousness as hard and smooth and unassuming as a river-washed stone. This was occlumency, a constant practice, the counter to a skilled legilimens. When he offered his mind to the Dark Lord freely, this is what he would see. 

But the Dark Lord would not see what grew inside him - bright crystals, like the heart of a geode. In fact, no one would see such a side of him until he was cracked open, finally finished, and his letter was read. But Severus Snape would not waste his time fretting about the future: he had once seen it and destroyed it, and could now prepare to make amends for better days, even if he was not going to see them come to pass. It would fit to simply do good on his word - he would have to do better, and with so little time. It was strange how much more stock he had in his own life when he made the choice to start living it for others. 

He stowed the scroll away in the hiding place behind the now-snoozing Dumbledore’s portrait. The man had been right: it was comforting, in a way, to know that there was some mystery still left in the world. The die was cast on Snape’s part, but what would come and come, and he would have to meet it when it did. 


End file.
